


Loose Lips Sink Ships

by SummerFrost



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Open Relationships, Overstimulation, Polyamory, Skype Sex, Under-negotiated Kink, brief mentions of past suicidal ideations, canon-typical alcohol use, dub-con touching between an OMC and a main character, hockey violence, like so many, lots of hickeys, sexual slurs (as kink), slightly unhealthy sexual situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 06:19:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8434879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerFrost/pseuds/SummerFrost
Summary: Epikegster 2014 starts with Bitty’s Winter Screw date crashing the party, and ends with Kent Parson giving him his hat and four tickets to an Aces game.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Ohhhh my god I have a lot of thank yous to make. 
> 
> First of all, endless thanks to my fantastic team of betas/cheerreaders: omgpbandj, ice-and-lights, and shipped-goldstandard. The three of you made this fic possible <3
> 
> Secondly, thanks to the incredibly skilled redporkpadthai for the art she created for this fic!! I'm honestly blown away <3 (you'll find the art in the body of the fic and [on her Tumblr!](http://redporkpadthai.tumblr.com/post/152602946930/title-loose-lips-sink-ships-author))
> 
> Finally, thanks to the mods of the Big Bang fest for hosting this event!
> 
> Fic title from [XO by Fall Out Boy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5qPXDE-OsIw) aka recommended listening always and for this fic in particular!

****Epikegster 2014 has really just been one bizarre event after another, and Bitty isn’t quite sure how he should be expected to stay on top of all this. First of all, Liam insisted on coming even though he’s never been interested in the hockey parties before, because apparently the rugby team didn’t have anything going on this weekend since most everyone had finished their exams and gone home already. And it isn’t like Bitty isn’t _happy_ that the boy he’s been seeing wanted to be here, but Liam’s been a little…clingy, and this is the last big party of the semester with Bitty’s teammates so he’d like to spend some time with them, for goodness’ sake.

Which brings Bitty to the second thing: Jack’d come _downstairs_ during the party, looking like he wanted to socialize but clinging to the wall like his poor Canadian life depended on it. So naturally Bitty had to come over and talk to Jack to make him feel more comfortable. It’s not because he’s a little bit in love, of course. It’s really just the right thing to do. As a friend.

And Bitty was about to go track down Liam again, he really was, but now the third thing is happening which is that _Kent freaking Parson,_ the famous NHL player, is at _this kegster._ So after Jack walks off, Bitty tracks Kent down to ask for a selfie.

“Sure, I’ll take a picture. What’s your name?” Kent Parson smirks at him and leans in a little to fit into the camera frame.

“I’m Bitty—um, Eric?—Bitty’s my nickname—anyway, it’s nice to meet you, Mr. Parson.”

“’Mr. Parson?’ Christ, don’t make me feel even fucking older than I am, Bitty. Call me Parse,” he laughs, and offers Bitty a fistbump.

Then somehow, right as he’s waving down Liam from across the room, Bitty gets sucked into a game of flip cup, and then both Jack and Parse have disappeared so he thinks maybe he should try and find at least one of them since Parse mentioned he really wants to see Jack before he has to head back to Boston. Shitty hasn’t seen either of them, and doesn’t seem to think Bitty should be trying to get them to meet, which is a little confusing but Bitty doesn’t have the energy to figure that mess out right now, so he figures he’ll just go put his phone in his room because he’s getting a little loose with the tweeting and—

“Where’ve you been all night?” Liam seems a little upset, and if he wasn’t in such a huff about it, Bitty would probably chirp, _this kegster, mostly_ but for some reason he has a feeling that wouldn’t go over well. He shrugs and tries to formulate a better response when Liam adds, “Don’t you think it’s rude to spend so much time away from me?”

“I—w-what?” Bitty stammers, and he moves a little farther away from the other man, towards the wall.

Liam shadows his movement. “I saw you chatting up that Jack bloke, and then what, drooling over some blondie with a fancy watch?”

Bitty really shouldn’t feel so uncomfortable, right? He’s just talking to Liam who, to be fair, he _has_ been neglecting a little. “That was—Parse is a _celebrity,_ it really wasn’t—I’m sorry?”

“Look, that’s alright, but just remember who you’re here with.” Suddenly Liam’s hand is on Bitty’s ass, which isn’t anywhere it hasn’t been _before,_ but it’s a little awkward to have it just plastered there in the middle of an argument and is he _squeezing_ it? Because really, that’s a little much.

“Oh, um—could you not…um—,” and that’s when Bitty realizes that Liam is one, very drunk, and two, not really listening to anything that’s being said. It’s also when he starts to panic a little because he is _incredibly_ uncomfortable and any time he tries to move away Liam just follows closer.

“Look, Eric, all I’m saying is that you ought to pay a little more attention to me,” Liam is insisting, his other hand pushing Bitty back against the wall sloppily, “instead of flouncing around the party.”

Bitty bites down on his lip and tries to fold into himself. There are hands sliding places they _should not_ be and he tries to sputter out something in response but all he can think of is _run_ and he can’t with the way he’s pinned up against the wall, so it’s _run can’t run can’t can’t can’t—_

Liam is still talking but Bitty filters it out, looks around the room desperately, trying to make eye contact with one of his teammates. Pretty soon someone will notice and help him. Lardo will crush her beer pong opponent and look over to gloat. Rans and Holster will stop trying to wheel those girls and come get Bitty for a kegstand. Shitty will come inside to refill the cooler with tub juice. Chowder will need some advice about Farmer or Jack will come back downstairs or Nursey and Dex will come over with an argument that needs solving.

 

None of those things happen, but Kent Parson happens instead.

“Hey, buddy, I gotta thank you,” Parse says, sliding easily between Bitty and Liam to break their contact, a firm hand squeezed on the rugby player’s shoulder. Parse is a good three inches shorter but somehow still makes that look intimidating. Bitty envies him.

Liam frowns, caught off guard. “I beg your pardon?”

“Yeah, see, usually _I_ end up the biggest asshole at the party,” he explains with a smirk, gray eyes glinting, “but you’re definitely taking the fucking mantel tonight, buddy.”

“Look, I don’t know who you think you are—,”

“Kent Parson, captain of the Las Vegas Aces, last time I—,”

“—but we’re doing _quite_ alright. Aren’t we, Eric?” Liam peers at Bitty from over Parse’s shoulder. Bitty shrinks farther behind Parse like maybe everyone will forget he’s back there. It doesn’t work and now they’re both staring at him, Parse still angled protectively. The NHL player _(good Lord)_ offers him a reassuring wink.

He’s supposed to fucking stand up for himself. It’s like Jack taught him about checking, right? If he shrinks against the boards it actually just hurts worse; he crumples, then. Bitty squares his shoulders and tries to keep his voice from shaking when he says, “Um, no, actually. You—you should leave.” Lord, it’s possible he might faint. He tries to lean forward so if he does he’ll crash into Parse and not the disgustingly sticky floor. Maybe that’ll save some of his dignity.

Parse takes his hand off Liam’s shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, leaning against the wall and raising an eyebrow in the direction of the door. Dismissively, he digs, “I’d say it was nice to meet you, but my therapist says I need to lie less.”

There’s a terrifying moment when Liam clenches his fists and feints forward, and Bitty’s brain is five frames ahead, watching the moment knuckles hit face and conjuring up the sound of bone cracking against bone. But it’s a bluff and somehow Parse doesn’t even flinch, so Liam stalks off into the crowd, stumbling drunkenly, after shooting a _fuck you_ over his shoulder at both of them.

“Therapist says I should do less of that too,” Parse mutters, probably more to himself than to Bitty.

Apparently there was some adrenaline pumping through Bitty’s veins, because he’s feeling himself turn a little pale as he slumps against the wall. He’s becoming _far_ too aware of the fact that _Kent Parson_ just had to step between him and…whatever that situation would’ve been. It’s embarrassing to say the least, and he’s really not ready to process it all. Luckily, there’s always a distraction at a kegster, more important things to do than worry about himself.

“Oh Lord, Nursey is crowd-surfing again, I should really—oh, and sweet Chowder should _not_ be doing a kegstand—,” he babbles, a hand to his forehead, the words floating up over his head like they’re being spoken by someone else, “And where is Jack? Someone should check on him, I’ll—,”

“Hey,” Parse cuts in, his expression blank but open, “I, uh—I think I need some air. Would you mind sitting with me?”

Bitty narrows his eyes suspiciously. Parse looks _decidedly_ un-phased by the whole ordeal; his hands are still in his pockets and his jaw is relaxed. But it couldn’t hurt to be sure. “Um, ‘course. The backyard is pretty quiet—by kegster standards anyway.” They snake through the kitchen and Bitty snags a Natty Light from the fridge, pressing his fingers into the cool metal can to steady himself.

It turns out the yard is almost entirely empty. Parse flops onto the grass, which is getting a little tall; Bitty should _really_ get someone to cut it, and he’s half a mind to just grab the lawnmower from the shed and do it himself right now, but there might be beer cans on the ground and he’s not really in the mood to risk shredding something into _shrapnel_ especially with people around and—

“Hey, Bits, you gonna sit?” Parse interrupts the train of thought, gesturing to the ground beside him.

“Hm? Oh, sure.” Bitty sits gingerly, looking over at the man next to him, who’s sprawled on his back with his snapback resting on his chest; he doesn’t seem any different than he did five minutes ago inside. “…I know what you’re doin’.”

Parse chuckles, “Yeah?”

Bitty sets his jaw. “I’m not talkin’ about it.”

“That’s cool, man.” Parse shrugs, which looks kind of funny because he’s lying on the ground. “I get it.”

There’s a breeze drifting through the yard; Bitty shivers and pulls his jacket tighter around himself. “You do?”

Warily, Parse answers, “Uh, yeah? Not like, specifically, but I mean—look, I’m not exactly your fuckin’ typical NHL _brah,_ yeah? You get used to burying your real shit under like, three other layers of shit.”

Bitty leans back onto his forearms and glances over at Parse, who’s braiding together blades of grass with surprisingly intense concentration. He’s not really following where this conversation is headed, honestly, so he lets the silence drag out for a bit before he gets the nerve to ask, “Are you talking about you and Jack?” He’d almost think Parse didn’t even hear the question, but then his fingers twitch and he ruins the knot he was tying. “Sorry, um—I just, I talked to Shitty earlier and he mentioned…how things went last time you visited.”

After a moment, Parse raises an eyebrow and comments, “That’s a third-layer question. You gotta scale it way fuckin’ back, man, work your way down. Like—I dunno, ask me about my cat or something.”

“You have a cat?” Bitty asks automatically, wondering what about Jack and Parse’s friendship makes it all so secretive. Is it just because of Jack’s time in rehab? Because that’s basically common knowledge.

“My cat is _literally_ the coolest person I know,” Parse insists immediately, and Bitty thinks he might’ve gotten roped into more than he bargained for with this conversation topic because there are _so_ many photos, and it’s a little surreal to watch a veritable celebrity talk about his pet with such intensity. His eyes are bright green against the grass and he’s sat up a little to gesture with his hands while he flips through Instagram.

After a tiny lull, Bitty asks, “So, why’d you get a cat to begin with?” Lord, he’s actually _small-talking_ with Kent Parson. He fiddles with the tab on the top of his beer before he decides to crack it open. The alcohol tingles against his lips as he takes a long swig.

Kent deadpans, “Thought it’d be nice to feel needed,” which isn’t really the casual answer Bitty was expecting, and he stares at Parse a little too long because of it, so it gets followed up with, “Which, you know, fuckin’ joke’s on me because cats need _zero_ things from us, man. They’re just chilling in our houses eating our food ‘cause it’s _convenient_ and one day they’ll—sorry, I’ll save my conspiracy theories for a later date.”

And Bitty _does_ giggle now, because he’s finished a significant portion of his drink and Kent Parson is a very big dork and Bitty’s not really sure why he gets to be out here on a lawn learning this, but it feels good. He thinks about bringing up the first comment, the lonely one, but he isn’t sure how that would go over, so he follows with, “Would you ever get another pet?” instead.

Parse leans back down, hands resting behind his head, and considers briefly. “Nah, not right now. I have this thing—look, I think it’s fucking weird to be outnumbered by your pets, okay? Like they can conspire against you and shit and I have a _very_ fuckin’ loose hold on the condo as it is so uh, yeah. Maybe if I meet someone and he wants—maybe in a couple years.”

Bitty takes his next breath a little shallow because—and maybe he just heard wrong, because he hasn’t _really_ sobered up from all that tub juice and he just drank two-thirds of a beer to boot, so maybe it’s just wishful thinking—he could swear Parse just said _he._ But he doesn’t touch it, just nods and hides behind another sip of beer.

“So what’s your major, Bits?”

“Oh, um—American Studies.” Normally that’s the whole answer. Whoever he’s talking to says _oh cool_ or some dismissive variant and moves on. But Parse just stares at him expectantly, compelling him to add, “I’m concentrating on food and culture; there’s some pretty neat classes that dig into that kind of thing, and I’ve always loved cookin’, especially baking.”

“That’s cool, Bits.” Parse smiles. “What kinda shit do you bake?”

“Well, I try to be well-rounded, but pies are my specialty,” Bitty explains excitedly, and launches into a story about the historical pie recipe he recreated for the senior seminar he bribed his way into.

Parse listens intently, jumping in with questions occasionally, still adding to his collection of braided strands of grass. He’s building a little pile on his stomach. Bitty finishes his beer and lays down on the lawn, angling his head sideways to watch his companion. Parse smirks at him and asks in the lull, “So you said Zi—Jack was in the class too?”

_“Yes._ Lord, he made these odd biscuit things that soldiers ate? It should be a _crime_ to bake anything with that little butter, I swear.” Bitty sighs dramatically and Parse chuckles.

“So…” Parse trails, something hesitating on his tongue, “he’s been doing good, then?”

“Oh, yes? I think so, yeah. I mean, it’s been a rough semester with captaining and looking at contracts, and everyone here at Samwell has a senior thesis they have to write, but he’s—he seems happy?”

Bitty watches Parse carefully and still almost misses the pained smile that flutters across his face before the mask sets back in. “Does he, uh—does he ever talk about back in the Q? Just like, any stories or anything?”

“Um.” Bitty knows what he’s actually being asked. He turns his head away, looks up at the inky sky that doesn’t show the off stars quite like it does in Madison. “Well, he’s said, um—I’m sorry, but he hasn’t really talked about you.”

Parse puffs air out through his nose. “Yep, that’s okay, I—it’s alright. Yeah.” His head turns, rustling the grass, and Bitty tilts his head back over to meet the pair of eyes now fixed on him. Parse’s freckles flicker in the light from the Haus, peeking out from the odd shadows that always seem to get cast on faces late at night. His voice is softer, almost open, when he asks, “Hey, um, definitely tell me to fuck off if you want, but like, would it be weird if I held your hand right now?”

Bitty’s facing away from the light and he wonders if the blush he feels on his face is visible. _Lord,_ what is happening tonight? There’s something irreplaceable in the air, the weird kind of false-nostalgia you feel when something is about to begin that will crack at any second. He’d felt it the very first time he slipped into ice skates, his fingers lingering over the knot for an impossibly long moment until the tension folded and the bow tightened. He feels it now when he asks, “I—I’m sorry, if this is—but—are you…coming on to me?”

Parse laughs, and it sounds like it echoes even though they’re in an open space. “Uh, yeah? But it’s not entirely—ah, it’s also, like, a comfort thing? So I don’t know how to—fuck okay, have you heard of ‘love languages?’ Shit, that makes it sound more—it’s just to explain, not to—so there’s five languages, right? And mine’s physical contact, like, it’s how I connect with people and I just—,”

Lord, Kent Parson has _zero_ chill. Bitty giggles and reaches his hand out in the dark. “Acts of service,” he interrupts, feels his fingers hit the flannel of Parse’s shirt and traces them down his arm until he finds an upturned palm, “That’s mine. And words of affirmation.” Their fingers lace together. Parse’s hand is surprisingly soft for a hockey player’s, and a little cold from the midnight air.

“Neat,” Parse answers, and when he chuckles it vibrates through his hand and against Bitty’s skin, “Words is my secondary too. It’s cool to meet someone who’s heard of it. I tried showing the Aces and got chirped for like, two fuckin’ months over it. But it’s like, such a fucking cool thing right? Like, you give out the kinda love you want to receive and—hell, I dunno, I think that’s fucking _important.”_

Zero chill. Bitty wonders if Parse is drunk or if he’s just always like this. “Yeah,” he smiles to himself and muses, for some God-forsaken and probably beer-encouraged reason, “I wonder what Jack’s are.”

“I wouldn’t know.” It was meant to be flippant, Bitty can tell, but it just comes out bitter and raw. Parse’s eyes cloud with something and he looks away, tilting his gaze down to the grass.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—,”

“It’s cool, Bits,” Parse answers softly, and looks back up at him with a smirk firmly planted on his face. Bitty hesitates, then, but there’s still the misty feeling floating around them and he isn’t sure what the waiting is for, what’s supposed to happen to make the moment snap away. He scooches closer through the grass and turns onto his side to nestle his head against Parse’s chest, in the crook where it meets his shoulder. The feeling still follows him, even when Parse chuckles in surprise and unlaces their fingers to wrap that arm around his shoulders. “So, how’d you get into hockey?”

Bitty is cuddling. With Kent Parson. In the Haus backyard. He takes a moment to ponder the very strange set of blessings he’s been given in his life, and then he talks about hockey. He explains how it all started with figure skating, how he trained with Katya for years and still keeps up with her over email, how he wrecked his knee that one summer and almost couldn’t compete in regionals. And it’s easier than it should be to mention how much he hated disappointing Coach when he didn’t want to play football, and that he started co-ed hockey in high school to make his dad happy. He mentions how hard it was to move back into the world of contact sports, admits to the embarrassment he felt that first day of practice when he saw Ransom coming at him and dropped to the ice.

“Dude, checking fucking sucks, man, I get it,” Parse says, his hand tracing up and down Bitty’s arm absentmindedly, “I used to be fucking terrified, especially before my last growth spurt. Like, who wants a big guy coming right at you and fucking slamming—actually, I do, but not in this context—,” Bitty laughs breathily into Parse’s shirt, catching the spicy, crisp scent of his cologne, “Anyway, I’d probably still be freaked out by it if it weren’t for Zimms.”

“Oh?” Bitty asks, tilting his head up and to the side to look at Parse. He swallows hard when he realizes how close their faces are; he can feel beer-tinged breath on his face.

Parse holds the gaze, his smirk playful but with wistfulness at the edges. “Yeah. He used to drag me out to the rink early to help me practice taking the hits.”

“He did the same for me,” Bitty says, and he’s not sure he can handle the reaction in Parse’s eyes so he turns away, pressing his nose back to the soft flannel, “Still does, sometimes, when he thinks I’m gettin’ wound up by it again.”

The chuckle vibrates against Bitty’s ear. “Yeah? He’s good like that. Emotional IQ of fuckin’ zero unless he’s in the rink. He feels everything out there.”

The ground is getting uncomfortable; it saps out all the heat from Bitty’s body, leaving him feeling rough and cold on all the parts of him that aren’t touching Parse. He wonders if maybe they should go inside, maybe to the den or, Lord, even up to his room. But there’s still the little bubble around them and he’s starting maybe to think it’s the whole place, the whole night, that’s doing it, and if he tries to move the whole thing’ll pop. So he murmurs, “Mhm,” and tries to focus on how warm his left cheek is.

“Scale of one to ten, how in love with him are you?” It’s a plain question, spoken with the same off-hand curiosity Parse used to ask him about hockey and his major and the things he likes to bake.

Bitty thinks about not answering, or about lying. He’s not sure what the point would be. He thinks about bringing up the layers Parse mentioned, how this is layer three and he’s not ready for that. But the night is buzzing with crickets and the faint music leaking from the Haus and an otherness he still hasn’t put his finger on and somehow, saying he’s not ready for layer three would be a lie. So he turns over the feelings in his head and decides, “Um, seven.” Parse nods, and the nod brushes his chin against Bitty’s hair. “…You?”

“It’s feeling like a thirteen today,” Parse answers bluntly, immediately, like apparently he keeps track. Ransom could make him an Excel sheet, maybe. When Bitty opens his mouth to say something, Parse interrupts, “Don’t feel bad, man. That’s down from a fifteen this morning.” He laughs almost like he’s chirping himself, chirping both of them for this mess they’ve gotten into.

Bitty closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. He’s starting to acclimate to the smell of Parse’s cologne, but he can still catch pieces of it if he concentrates. He chuckles with the same half-derision and chides them both, “Never fall for a straight boy.”

Parse does a laugh that’s somehow both a snort and a cackle all at once, his hand slipping off Bitty’s arm and onto his hip. Bitty huffs in protest because it’s really not _that_ funny, even if it is a good saying, and Parse looks at him with a suddenly confused and then shocked expression. “Holy shit,” he whispers, “You’re serious. You think—you don’t know.”

“I—I don’t?” Bitty replies, looking up at the other man.

“I—Zimms really doesn’t ever talk about me, huh?” Parse laughs again, and the bitterness creeps in but he seems mostly _amused_ which Bitty really doesn’t think is appropriate. “He—okay, fuck, I clearly shouldn’t be telling you this because ‘respect other people’s privacy’ and all that shit, but—,”

_“Kent Parson,”_ Bitty scolds, and he sits up to cross his arms and glower with disapproval, “you better start making some damn sense.”

Parse sits up too, his arm still around Bitty’s waist. He has the nerve to slide his fingers up under the hem of Bitty’s shirt, sending goosebumps up the bare skin. To make matters worse, he presses his forehead against Bitty’s temple and murmurs into his ear, “Look, I have it on _very_ good authority that Jack Zimmermann sucks cock like a fucking god.”

 

No, this is really too much. Bitty doesn’t understand how this can all be happening in one night. If the night had ended with Kent Parson asking to hold his hand, it would have been too much. If the night had ended with Kent Parson saying _hi_ to him, it would have been a _big night_ . But apparently the Lord wants Bitty to die tonight and float up to Heaven. Because Kent Parson has his hand up Bitty’s shirt and he’s telling him that Jack isn’t straight and—and _Lord_ , Kent and Jack used to be _together_ didn’t they? Which certainly explains why Jack is a layer-three conversation and also now Bitty can’t stop picturing Jack with his mouth around Kent’s cock and he’ll be damned if it isn’t the most beautiful thing he’s ever imagined.

“Hey, Bits, you alright?” Kent is smirking at him, his hair sticking up all over the place. Bitty reaches out absent-mindedly and smooths it back down. It works with the pieces in the back but apparently the mess up front is just some sort of permanent thing. “You gonna stroke out on me?”

“You…and Jack?” Bitty asks. At least he isn’t thinking about the cold anymore.

“Fucking dream team, right?” He manages a wink but his voice is a little dry. “Used to be, anyway.”

It’s probably not really appropriate in the slightest, but Bitty leans to the side and thumps his head onto Parse’s shoulder. “I didn’t know—I didn’t I think I had—,”

“Had a chance?” Parse finishes for him, “Well, you do, Bits. A pretty fucking good one, if I still know anything about Jack which—hey, actually, maybe don’t take my word for it.”

“Oh…well, then.” Bitty laughs, because why not? What else should he do? He’s being hit on by Kent Parson, who has very nice eyes and a lot of freckles, and the cowlick is actually quite charming even if it seems to follow some rules of physics Bitty doesn’t really understand, and while Kent’s been hitting on him he’s also managed to let it slip that the handsome Canadian upstairs might not be entirely opposed to using his mouth for some things besides talking about hockey.

Kent has his lips pressed against Bitty’s hair and only the Lord knows how or when that happened, but Bitty’s beyond little details like that, to be honest. Kent asks, “Are you thinking about Zimms sucking your dick? Because I’m thinking about Zimms sucking your dick.”

_“Mr. Parson.”_

“So…yeah?” Kent teases, his chuckle rustling against Bitty’s head. There’s a wistfulness creeping into his voice that makes Bitty hurt for him. “You two’d be good together. You’re so sweet, Bits, and Jack—well we both know how great he is. He deserves—.” The words stop like the end of the sentence is supposed to be understood. _Everything. Better. Not Kent._

Kent places his other hand lightly on Bitty’s knee. Bitty leans into the contact instinctively, his entire side pressed up against Kent’s. “Sorry, um—I’m a little confused. Are you trying to wheel me or set me up with Jack?”

“Yes,” Kent chirps, and Bitty huffs. “Like, mostly the first thing because I’m a selfish fucking bastard and you’re incredible—no seriously, you are—but also a little—okay, look, Zimms and I are _done_ alright, like, forgot to put water in the Easy Mac and set the microwave on fucking fire levels of done, and if you can make him happy—,”

Bitty isn’t sure what Kent is about to say, and honestly he stopped _really_ processing the conversation after “mostly the first thing” because since then he’s been thinking about the fact that he could be kissing Kent Parson right now, and it takes him about halfway through the bizarre macaroni and cheese analogy to figure out he’s going to grab life by the very soft flannel shirt and take advantage of this beautiful opportunity.

The air snaps. Bitty feels it in his bones, like thunder is rolling overhead, and he almost expects rain to pour down on them and soak him to his skin. This is the thing that they’ve been tumbling towards, he’s sure of it now, and he wonders how it took so long to feel it. Kent makes a startled noise that muffles in the back of his throat but wraps his arm tighter around Bitty’s waist to draw him in closer, fumbling to knock his hat off his lap and pull Bitty there instead.

Bitty takes the invitation and straddles him, deepening the kiss and dragging his tongue against Kent’s bottom lip. He’s desperate for everything. He wants tongues he wants teeth he wants to leave a hickey on Kent Parson’s neck to prove he was really here. He’s pretty sure that last one isn’t really acceptable because _good Lord_ Parse is going to be on national television tomorrow, so he just ghosts his lips over, sucking gentle and temporary, but then Kent mumbles, “You can mark me if you want. S’not like I haven’t shown up with ‘em before,” and his voice is so deep and throaty Bitty wants to cry.

He sucks harder, right under Kent’s chin, nipping with his teeth and soothing with his tongue. And he really means to do just the one, for the principle of it, but the moan Kent makes is the most beautiful thing Bitty’s ever heard, and Kent’s hips buck up against him, begging _please please_ do that again. So he does. He trails erratically down Kent’s neck, leaving marks that will pool into bruises, and the first few buttons on the flannel are already undone, so really it’d be a crime to not pull aside the undershirt and leave some there, too.

“Christ, I want you to fucking _devour_ me,” Kent pants, and Bitty shivers, “And fuck, Bits, you—I want to—fuck, can I?” Kent slides a hand down to cup Bitty’s ass and squeezes hard when Bitty arches his back into the contact with a whine. The other hand comes up to Bitty’s throat, fingers brushing lightly along, pressing with gentle little question marks.

“Yes, _Lord_ ,” Bitty gasps, a little shocked at himself, because honestly he’s always felt the whole concept of walking around with bruises from the night before was a little undignified. But he’s frantic for it now, trembling chin tilting up in welcome, and he shudders when Kent’s hand slips away to be replaced by his mouth.

He starts slow, dragging his lips around in search of something until they settle low on Bitty’s neck and to the side, near his collarbone. Everything is soft and wet and Bitty starts a whimper, but then Kent sucks back and it _hurts_ , fuck, which shifts the whimper into a surprised yelp at the end and he has to try to not flinch away. Kent presses his tongue against the tender skin and that feels good again so he relaxes a little, hands still balled around Kent’s shirt. Kent drags his tongue up across Bitty’s neck and ends up near his ear to murmur, “Sorry, does that hurt too much?”

“A little,” Bitty admits, “sorry.”

“Nah, Bits, don’t—,” but Bitty’s sucking on Kent’s earlobe, so whatever he was about to say gets replaced by a moan instead. Kent takes Bitty gently by the chin and pulls him back into a kiss.

There’s too many clothes. Bitty wants to be connected by the skin, to feel sweat pooling between them and mixing everything together. He pushes Kent down into the grass and laughs at him when he snorts in surprise. Bitty’s sweatshirt sheds off and to the side; goosebumps pop up on his now bare arms. And this is really ridiculous, because the ground is uncomfortable and early morning dew is starting to form around them, and there’s a perfectly good bed upstairs they could be using as an alternative, but neither of them seems to want to waste the two minutes it’d take to stumble up there, so Bitty ruts against Kent in the damp grass instead.

 

Bitty’s fumbling with Kent’s zipper when he hears his name being called from inside the Haus and curses vehemently.

“Bits, the hell are you?”

“Lards, you sure he didn’t shack up with Liam?”

“Ye-ep. Check out back.” They snap apart so quickly Bitty thinks he might have whiplash. At least his friends are loud when they’re wasted.

Kent has just enough time to re-fasten his belt before the door swings open and Lardo steps outside, followed by Ransom and Holster.

 

Out of all the ways to exercise, Bitty hates running the most. He hates it because of the very end, where there’s always those few jarring moments after he’s stopped but his whole body thinks he’s still jogging. His heart still pounds and his feet keep screaming up at him _faster faster_ and there’s an odd heat rushing to his face because all the blood getting pumped needs somewhere to go. It’s a disgusting limbo that makes him feel like he should run forever just to avoid how it all ends.

That’s how Bitty feels now, sitting next to Kent on the lawn. He feels a phantom tongue in his mouth and a thumping in his chest and his breaths come out in little spurts because his body doesn’t believe it has room for air again. He tries to settle himself, aching in the shadows and ignoring the strange look he’s getting from Lardo, ignoring the fact that painfully few moments ago he’d felt hands on his body and the line of Kent’s half-hard cock against his thigh.

“Hi, guys,” he squeaks, wincing at the crack in his own voice.

Kent nods casually. “’Sup?” He pushes onto his feet and offers a hand to Bitty, who accepts and rises a little unsteadily.

“Yo, Parse, you’re still here, bro?” Ransom asks excitedly. He’s unbalanced on his feet and keeps leaning up against Holster to stay upright.

“Yeah, just chilling with Bits here. I should probably head out soon though.” He nods at Lardo with a smirk. “Unless you wanna kick my ass at flip cup again?”

She smirks back and explains, “We’re pretty much wound down for the night, brah. Ergo the search for Bitty.”

Bitty checks his phone and _fuck_ it’s past three AM. “Oh Lord, is it that late already? Where are the Frogs? Did sweet Chowder get home okay? I saw Nursey crowd-surfing, did he—,”

“Bi-its, don’t stress so much bro, everyone’s fine,” Holster waves his hands around which knocks Ransom off balance; he stumbles backwards and braces himself against the Haus.

“Uh, so I’m gonna bounce? Management’ll kill me if they find out I was out this late before a game so…” Kent clasps Bitty on the arm, a gesture that somehow feels simultaneously overly-familiar and distancing. “See ya around, Bits?”

“Oh, sure?” Bitty manages, and good Lord, then Kent _winks_ at him, which is really just too much. Bitty isn’t sure how he’s supposed to keep his composure. _Honestly._ Kent’s all the way back to the door when Bitty goes to pick up his sweatshirt and notices the snapback underneath. “Oh, um, Parse?” Bitty scrambles, snagging the hat and jogging over, “You, um, almost forgot this.”

Kent takes the hat, stares at it thoughtfully for a moment. “Tell you what, Itty Bitty,” he says, looking up with a smirk, “come cheer for the Aces tomorrow and you can keep it.” He places the cap on Bitty’s head; it’s a little loose and the bill drops low over his eyes. “I’ll leave you tickets at will call.” With a nod to the others, he adds, “Four tickets.”

While Bitty processes this development, Kent vanishes back into the Haus with a wave.

“Bro,” Holster whispers in awe, “Kent Parson just gave you hockey tickets.”

“Bro,” Ransom adds, with equal reverence, “Kent Parson gave you _his hat.”_

Bitty puts a hand up to his neck and brushes his fingers against the third thing Kent gave him. “Sweet Lord in Heaven.”

 

~*~

 

“Bro, it’s _weird_ to wear Bruins jerseys when Parse is the one who got us tickets.”

“But Boston is our _team, bro.”_

“Dudes, quit dicking around and get your shit together or Bitty and I will leave you behind. Right, Bitty? …Wait, where’d Bitty go?”

Bitty thunks his head against his bedroom door. “Oh, um, in here again! Just—I was thinking maybe I’d change?”

He can feel Lardo’s eyeroll from the hallway. “Bits, it’s a hockey game. What you were wearing is fine.”

But what he’s wearing _isn’t_ fine, because this might not just be a hockey game for Bitty. And to make matters worse, he isn’t sure if he should be trying to hide the hickey on his neck before someone notices and chirps him to hell and back for it, or showing it off so that Parse can see. “Just one second!”

Lardo opens the door and pokes her head inside the room. “Blue flannel.”

“Pardon?” Bitty jumps a little, but smiles at her.

“Your blue flannel is hella hot if you’re, you know, tryna pull. Plus, vibes with the hat, brah.” She vanishes back behind the door and Bitty hears her footsteps bounding up the attic stairs.

_“Bless,”_ he mutters, but rips off his Samwell shirt and digs through his drawers for a v-neck to layer under the flannel.

Bitty really needs to get going, but now he’s wondering if he should bring snacks, and would it have been inappropriate to bring a pie? It would have been nice to bring a pie, but maybe that would be too much, except really that’s not the immediate issue because it’s too late to bake a pie and the rink is a forty minute drive and stadium food is always expensive, so maybe he should throw some protein bars in a bag or something. Oh, and he’s been meaning to make a tweet about the game, he could start on that now—

_“Oof_ —hey, that’s an illegal check, Bittle,” Jack chirps.

Bitty’s usually far from opposed to running into Jack, even if it is literally, but he’s in a hurry and feeling a little self-conscious about the fact that Kent Parson’s snapback is on his head and what if Jack recognizes it and gets upset? “Sorry, Jack. Um, Lord we’re so behind schedule! Is Lardo downstairs already or…?”

“Yeah, she’s in the kitchen,” Jack answers, moving to the side to give Bitty room to dart down the hallway. “Oh, Bittle?”

“Hm?” Bitty pauses near the stairway.

“Eh, sorry to pry but—Shitty says he saw—what’s his name? Liam?—storm off yesterday. Is everything okay?”

Bitty can’t help but raise an eyebrow. This isn’t normally the kind of thing Jack would get involved in; the only other time he’s mentioned Bitty’s love life was to remind him that having a date wasn’t an excuse to be late to practice. “Oh, um, well—if you ever see him, feel free to break out that fire extinguisher, but I’m fine. Thanks.” And it’s mostly the truth, even though Bitty can’t think about Liam without his skin crawling like there are ants trapped underneath trying to chew their way out.

“Yeah, well, ah…yeah.” Jack slips into his room and the door clicks shut.

Bitty would like more time to process that very strange little conversation, but Ransom and Holster bound down the attic stairs and practically railroad him downstairs into the kitchen where Lardo is waiting with crossed arms and a box of granola bars.

 

Bitty creeps up to the will call and smiles at the elderly lady working behind the counter. “Hello, ma’am. Um, I should have four tickets from Kent Parson? For Eric Bittle?”

The woman looks down at the list. “It just says ‘Bitty’ here. Is that you, sweetheart?”

He should’ve known. “Yes, um, that’s my nickname ma’am, sorry.”

“No problem, sweetheart. Oh, and I think there’s a note back here for you.” The woman hands over their tickets and a notecard that has “Bits” written on it in overly-uniform letters, the kind that happen when someone with normally sloppy handwriting is trying to make things look neater.

The notecard also has a phone number scrawled on it with an area code he doesn’t recognize, and the message, _“Text me after the game.”_ Instead of an actual signature, there’s a tiny doodle of a cat’s face, with ears, eyes, and a whiskered nose. So Bitty saves the contact as nothing but the cat emoji and shoves the notecard in his pocket.

**_Bitty (4:21 pm):_ ** _Good luck!! :)_

He hands Lardo and the boys their tickets and jumps when his phone buzzes in his pocket; he hadn’t expected an answer until after the game.

**_Parse (4:24 pm):_ ** _U dnt follow instructions very well Bits_

Bitty smirks at the phone and hesitates with his thumbs over the keyboard before committing to the text.

**_Bitty (4:24 pm):_ ** _I prefer giving them ;)_

**_Parse (4:24 pm):_ ** _Ffcuk_

 

“Holy shit,” Holster leans over and whisper-shouts over the ruckus of the crowd, “is Parson covered in hickeys?” They have great seats (which Bitty supposes is one of the perks of seducing your way into the stadium), great enough seats that yes, they _can_ see the marks on Kent’s neck as he skates up to center ice.

Bitty refuses to make eye contact with anyone as Ransom asks, “Shit bro, he have those when he showed up yesterday?”

“Bro, _definitely_ not.”

“Shi-it. Bro, you know what that means?”

“Parse got laid at _our_ kegster. ‘Swawesome!”

_Well, he_ would _have if_ some people _hadn’t shown up and mucked it up,_ Bitty thinks. But he’s not bitter or anything.

Ransom and Holster fistbump as the puck drops. Lardo hands Bitty a smuggled granola bar without a word.

 

The Aces win 3-1. Bitty’s celebratory tweet is interrupted by a text from Kent.

**_Parse (7:43 pm):_ ** _Should be out in 30-40. U guys hungry?_

**_Bitty (7:44 pm):_ ** _Don’t think R &H have ever said no to food _

**_Parse (7:47 pm):_ ** _Great A or B?_

He links two different dinner spots in the area, and Bitty consults with Lardo. They settle on the second place, a burger joint that doesn’t look like it has a single thing on an NHL player’s diet place but does have drunken milkshakes Lardo insists on trying.

Parse meets them a little before eight thirty, still dressed from the press conference in a _perfectly_ tailored steel gray suit with navy tie, and Bitty has to keep from openly swooning. He’s only human, for goodness’ sake.

“Nice hat,” Kent mutters, pulling the bill down over Bitty’s eyes with a smirk. His fingers graze across Bitty’s temple as he moves his hand away. Bitty bites his lip and follows the others into the restaurant, brushing a little closer to Kent than _strictly_ necessary to get through the doorway.

The gang manages to slip Bitty a spiked milkshake and Kent makes eerily familiar noises when he bites into the giant burger he ordered.

“Mr. Parson, I should confiscate that on behalf of your nutritionist,” Bitty chirps, twirling around the straw in his drink.

Kent raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? So you turned twenty-one overnight, Bits?” He smirks, “’Cause I could slide that milkshake back in front of me and let you order your own.”

Bitty leans in a little closer and murmurs, “I thought you’d want me a little tipsy, Mr. Parson.”

Kent laughs and tips his head down. His knee presses against Bitty’s under the table. “Why, don’t think I can seduce you sober?”

Instead of answering, Bitty makes a point of pursing his lips around the straw and taking a long drink. Kent’s foot slides up his calf.

 

After dinner (which Kent insists on paying for) and a million questions from Holster and Ransom that are all various levels of inappropriate, including some prodding about the kegster, Lardo suggests they head back to Samwell. Bitty clears his throat and says, “Um, actually I think I’ll stay a bit longer and uh, check out Boston, but you guys head on back. I’ll just take an Uber home.”

Ransom looks like he’s about to question something, but Lardo interrupts with, “Great, have fun in the city, brah,” and drags the d-men towards Holster’s car.

_I love you,_ Bitty tells her telepathically, already planning for a lemon meringue pie to find its way into her apartment tomorrow. He’s wondering if he has enough whipping cream in the Haus or if he needs to add that to the grocery list too when he realizes Kent’s been talking.

“…a couple times before, so I know some good spots if you like history, or there’s a fucking sweet club across town but it might not be open yet.”

“Oh, uh—,” Bitty blinks up at Kent and tugs at his bottom lip with his teeth, “I don’t actually—I didn’t stay to see the city?”

Kent laughs and wraps an arm around Bitty’s shoulders. “What, you don’t want me to wine you before I dine you, Bits?”

“Um, what?”

“…That sounded sexier in my head.”

Bitty giggles, “That wasn’t even—it doesn’t even make sense,” but he _is_ leaning closer against Kent’s side while they walk, so technically it worked. Not that he’d say that.

 

It turns out they wander the city for about half an hour, further destroying Kent’s diet plan with fresh cookies from one of those late night places targeted at college students, before they wind up back at his hotel.

Bitty gives Kent three seconds to flip on the light switches before he jumps him. He has Kent by the tie, pulling him down into a sloppy kiss, practically crawling up his thigh when Kent sucks on his bottom lip with a moan. Kent grips Bitty’s thighs and lifts him up and _in_ , deep into Kent’s space and Bitty wraps his legs around to lock himself in place, pressing chest against chest and mouth against neck, playing across night-old bruises while Kent whines, “ _Fuck_ fuck hell Jesus fucking Christ Bits, God, fuck me—no seriously _fuck me_ , God, please _please—_ ,”

Kent spins and pins Bitty against the wall, rolling his hips upwards, grinding his hardening erection against Bitty’s cock through their layers, nipping his neck with ghosting pressure, leading with his tongue and moaning deep in his throat when Bitty squirms. “Kent, honey, that’s so good, so good, I—you want me to— _ooh—_ want me to—to—,”

He can’t get the words out because they’re moving again, Kent still working with a gentle desperation at his neck and then he’s pressed against a mattress with Kent Parson sinking down on top of him and this can’t be his life, it can’t be. This hunger can’t be meant for him, the way he wants to put marks on every inch of this boy’s skin, the way his answer to Kent begging, “Fuck me, fuck me,” is _yes yes yes_ and the way he growls a little when Kent _finally_ shrugs off his shirt and there’s thick bare muscle in front of him that he can play with. This isn’t his life but he presses up against Kent’s chest and rolls them over so he’s straddled on top and grinding roughly while he adds hickeys anywhere he can reach. This isn’t his life but he wants it to be.

Bitty pauses in his mission to shed his own layers and Kent’s lips circle in a little O shape when he catches sight of Bitty’s chest. He breathes, “ _Fuck_ you look so good—so hot, Bits—fuck, I need—fuck me, just fuck me—I need—,”

Bitty purrs. He didn’t know that was a sound he made until this very moment, but he purrs anyway, “You’re starting to sound desperate, Mr. Parson,” and rolls his hips across the cock straining against Kent’s dress slacks, shivering when it rubs against his own.

“I am—how could I not— _fuck—_ not be? Fuck, please—,” Kent pleads, arching his hips up until Bitty answers, sinking back down against him and kissing him roughly, wetly, while his hands reach down and fumble with his zipper. Kent answers with hands at Bitty’s jeans and they strip down to their underwear, grinding harder. Kent begs every time their lips pull apart and Bitty’s always been a fan of good manners but _please_ has never been his favorite word until now, until it was _please fuck me_ and _please I want you inside me_ and _please God I need you so badly_ and now his heart is pounding at it, racing across every syllable Kent slings at him.

Kent’s wrists are pinned under his hands. He’s not sure how or when that happened but Kent squirms under him, just softly enough that he doesn’t actually push Bitty off, and it sends a little electric chill up Bitty’s spine. Kent’s pupils are wide and his smirk is needy when he says, “You could tie me up, if you wanted.”

Apparently that’s a thing Bitty wants. He wants it very badly and very suddenly, like _of course, this is how it was meant to go all along_ and he lunges for Kent’s discarded necktie with such intensity that they both laugh. The headboard is the perfect shape for it, so perfect Bitty finds himself wondering if this hotel and this room and this bed were all created for him, so that this moment could exist. It’s preposterous and he decides it’s also true. Kent’s arms are lifted a little above his head and he moans appreciatively when Bitty crawls back on top of him, lube and condoms pilfered from the duffel bag at the foot of the bed.

“You look so good, darlin’,” Bitty purrs again, his lips sending hot breath against Kent’s ear.

“I will be— _shit—_ I will be good, if you fuck me—please, Bits,” Kent answers, arching his hips to help get his boxers off.

Bitty pops the cap off the lube and smears some on his fingers. Everything in his body is throbbing and it makes him light-headed and it’s at this moment that he remembers he has _very little_ idea how to actually do this. Fuck. He runs his non-lube covered hand over Kent’s thigh absentmindedly and it makes him feel steadier while he bites his lip and thinks about what he likes when he gets fingered. Just press in slowly, one finger first, just watch Kent’s face and you’ll see, you can—

“Shit-fuck, I’m a huge fucking asshole aren’t I?” Kent swears suddenly.

“I—what?” Bitty stammers.

“You’ve never—,” Kent tries to lean forward and gets pulled back by the ties on his wrist, “Fuck, you really tied me good—,” he laughs, and leans back against the headboard, “you’ve never done this, have you? Like this?”

Bitty flushes and tries to speak, “I, um—,”

“God, I’m such a fucking idiot. I didn’t—I assumed you—we don’t have to do this, okay?” Kent is earnest now, which makes Bitty giggle because it’s quite the silly sight, watching this tied up naked man trying to be so serious and sweet. “Fuck, I’m sorry—you shouldn’t—I shouldn’t be—.”

Somehow it calms his nerves to hear the concern in Kent’s voice, and he tingles all over and thinks, _yes you should._ He laughs at himself and the lube slipping off his fingers and the conflictedly-amused expression appearing on Kent’s face and he laughs because he has Kent Parson tied up to a bed and he’s going to fuck him because _he wants to,_ he wants to very badly. So he leans forward, dragging his lubed fingers up Kent’s cock in a line, and catches the end of Kent’s sentence in his mouth.

“I’m going to fuck you, Mr. Parson,” he murmurs, pausing to suck on the underside of Kent’s jaw, savoring the gasp of relief at his words, “You’ll just have to be extra good for me. Can you do that, sweetheart?”

Kent bucks up against him at the pet name, his hands straining against the necktie wrapped around his wrists. “Yes, Bits, anything you need, I’ll—fuck, please—,” and then Kent moans, because Bitty takes the lube again, adds more to his tingling fingers, and presses one inside.

Kent loosens quickly and soon Bitty is working three fingers, pressing deep and _up_ until Kent can’t even talk, just makes little noises that are supposed to be words, and Bitty tells him, “Let me know when you’re ready, sweetheart.”

_“Yes,”_ Kent manages.

Bitty chuckles, “’Yes’ you’ll tell me or ‘yes’ you’re ready?”

_“Please.”_

Bitty thinks about chirping him more, but he’s so desperate with exhilaration and waiting and needing it’s honestly for his own sake that he pulls his fingers away and rips open the condom wrapper. He pinches and rolls it on, musing more to himself than anyone, “I’ve only ever done this on a banana.”

Kent is capable of speaking English again (sort of) and mutters, “Your dick’s nicer than a banana.”

“Thank you kindly,” Bitty drawls with an exaggerated accent, spreading lube along his length liberally, biting down on his lip in anticipation. Then, he settles in between Kent’s thighs and presses in, his hands on Kent’s hips to steady himself.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Kent moans and Bitty whines as he pushes in faster than he meant to, suddenly pressed nearly halfway inside Kent and frozen in place. “No keep—you can keep going, you don’t have to— _fuck—_ ,” Bitty listens, and Kent loses his words again when Bitty sinks in deep, his hips flush against Kent’s thighs.

“Oh, my God—my God, I—,” Bitty gasps, thrusting slowly. He can barely move because his entire body is on fire, every vein shot through with lava instead of blood, “Parse—Kent—you feel—you’re so good, honey—,” He looks down at their bodies, drinking in the way he’s sliding in and out, the way Kent is starting to sweat, and _especially_ the way Kent’s cock is pressed flush and leaking against his stomach. “Do you want me to touch you?”

“F-fuck yes,” comes the stammering reply.

“Ask me— _ooh_ , Lord—,” Bitty tries to be suave about it, but he can only keep _so_ much composure in this situation, honestly, “nicely, Mr. Parson.”

Kent shudders anyway and whines, “Please?” Bitty bites down on his lip and digs his fingers into Kent’s hip on one side, lifting his other hand to Kent’s cock and stroking.

Kent is bucking upwards again, straining against the tie and Bitty wonders if he’s going to break the headboard and he can’t believe it’s him doing this, drawing moans and curses from Kent Parson’s lips and promoting the potential splintering of hotel headboards and there isn’t an inch of him that isn’t filled with _yes yes yes_ when Kent begs, “Harder.”

_Harder_ is Bitty’s second favorite word, behind _please,_ and he listens, thrusts stronger and faster to the staccato-rhythm of Kent’s curses and breathy praises. “Fuck—shit, Christ—fucking _Christ_ Bits—you’re—incredible—fuck—fuck fuck— _please,_ fucking hell—you—you’re—perfect—,” and then Kent comes with a deep groan that wraps around Bitty, vibrates through him as he stares wide-eyed at the mess pulsing onto Kent’s stomach and that’s what does it, Bitty thinks, even more than the way Kent is tightening around him. It’s the watching, the knowing it’s because of him.

Bitty bursts apart with a yelp and he’s never come like this before, so rough and perfect that he wants to cry, thinks maybe he died at some point today and slipped seamlessly into Heaven, and he asks Kent, “Are we in Heaven?” and Kent just laughs so Bitty still isn’t sure.

He slides out slowly and ties off the condom in a daze, wrapping it in a ball of tissues, idly reminding himself to throw that away later and flopping onto Kent’s chest, kissing him lazily. Kent hums against him and grinds his hips gently, rubbing against Bitty’s thigh. There’s come sticking to both their stomachs now and Bitty wrinkles his nose in disapproval. They should really get cleaned up, maybe take advantage of that nice looking shower, and Kent is clearing his throat and _good Lord he needs to untie Kent._ He pushes back onto his knees and tugs at the knot with numb, shaky fingers.

“Thanks, babe,” Kent winks, his voice still husky, and rotates his wrists for a moment before pulling Bitty in for another kiss. They linger like that, until Bitty tugs away in favor of cleaning them both up a little. Kent flops, useless, on the bed with a smirk that might even be _fond._ Bitty doesn’t know how to process that, so he flees to the bathroom with his pile of used tissues.

 

Kent likes being the little spoon. Bitty wraps around him and takes a moment to savor how wonderful it feels to have those back muscles shifting against his chest, presses his nose against Kent’s shoulder and inhales the musky remnants of sex-sweat lingering on his skin. Then, he shifts upwards so his head actually rests on the pillow and snags his phone off the nightstand when it buzzes. It’s the SMH group chat.

**_Ransom (10:42 pm):_ ** _Yo Bits can you help us out?_

**_Bitty (10:42 pm):_ ** _Maybe…what is it?_

He’s rewarded with a small barrage of texts for that. “Bless their hearts,” Bitty mutters, scrolling through the messages.

“’Sup Bits?” Kent asks. He looks up from his own phone to glance at Bitty and nuzzles his neck.

Bitty sighs, “Rans and Holster got back to the Haus and started pestering everyone for an Epikegster timeline.”

“Uh, why?”

“They seem to think it’s _their_ business how you got these,” Bitty answers, and presses his lips up against one of the hickeys on Kent’s neck.

Kent squirms and laughs, “They put it together?”

“Nope, thank goodness.” Bitty shows Kent the latest texts.

**_Holster (10:43 pm):_ ** _So anyway Bits here’s how we lose the timeline:_

**_Holster (10:43 pm):_ ** _Parse loses to Lardo at flip cup_

**_Holster (10:43 pm):_ ** _????? <\- hookup in here _

**_Holster (10:43 pm):_ ** _Hangs w u outside til he leaves_

**_Holster (10:43 pm):_ ** _So if u remember how long u were out there??_

Kent snickers, and Bitty is halfway through a text fudging the numbers to leave extra time unaccounted for when more messages come in.

**_Jack (10:45 pm):_ ** _Are you sure he was with Bittle?_

**_Ransom (10:45 pm):_ ** _Uh yeah why_

They stare at the phone and wait.

**_Jack (10:48 pm):_ ** _Drop this. It isn’t your business._

Bitty frowns at the phone and abandons his message draft. First of all, he’s surprised Jack is still awake, but then again sometimes he peeks out his window and Jack’s just _there_ in the Reading Room, muttering about restless nights and hockey plays. And second of all, why would Jack only care about ending the conversation when he realized Kent spent time with Bitty, unless—

“You gonna answer them, Bits?” Kent asks.

“Oh, sorry, I—it’s just, Jack’s acting kind of weird isn’t he?” Kent tips his head back down into his pillow with a shrug. “I mean, I’d almost think he figured out we hooked up, but there’s a big block of missing time so he’d have to—did, um—did you go talk to him before you ran into Liam and me?” Bitty doesn’t really notice how long it takes Kent to answer because he’s thinking about how it’s _definitely_ possible Kent came from the direction of the staircase, and that would really explain why Jack is being so defensive, because he’s not normally an observant person, so—

“Uh, no. I didn’t talk to Jack.” Kent is scrolling through Twitter on his phone.

“…oh. It’s, um—it wouldn’t hurt my feelings if you did? Or if you were, uh, _with_ him, I’d—,”

“I wasn’t,” Kent cuts him off, his face perfectly neutral but with a tightness in his voice, “I mean, I tried, but he wouldn’t talk to me. So I just sat outside his door for a while in case he decided to come back out and he didn’t. So I went back downstairs and saw that dickface being an asshat to you, and you know the rest.”

Bitty squeezes Kent tighter, guiltily. “I’m sorry.”

“Nah, it’s cool Bits.” Kent rolls onto his back and pulls Bitty against his chest. “Think there’s a _Real Housewives_ marathon starting soon. You got time?”

Bitty doesn’t, really. He’s pretty sure he’ll get chirped for staying in Boston so long to begin with, and he’s a little worried about what Jack’s thinking, honestly, and Lord knows how much _Lardo_ has figured out, but Kent is _so_ warm and how many opportunities is he going to have to cuddle with an NHL player and gossip about his favorite guilty pleasure TV show? So he decides not to question his blessings. He nuzzles closer and pulls the covers up to his chin.

 

The hotel room door clicks open two thirds of the way through the first episode. Bitty panics and dives for his boxer-briefs while an unfamiliar voice with a Canadian accent calls out, “Parser, if you left for the club without me I swear to God—,”

“Uh, nope, I’m here, Swoops! But hang on a sec.” Kent hops into his boxers and shrugs into Bitty’s flannel, then flops back onto the bed.

“Shit, should I—where do I go?” Bitty whisper-hisses, wondering why Parse looks _decidedly_ unbothered by the whole mess, and settles on bolting for the bathroom.

Kent grabs his arm with a laugh. “Chill, Bits. I’m out to my team.”

“You’re—you are?” Bitty pulls on his v-neck, huffs when he processes that Kent took his over-shirt, and sits back down on the edge of the bed.

“Okay, whoever’s in there has five seconds to be less naked, eh?” the voice announces, and a man who Bitty recognizes as one of Kent’s linemates walks into the bedroom. When he catches sight of Bitty, he laughs, “Shit, you’re cute. How’d Parser land you?”

“Um—,”

“Fuck you too, buddy. Bits, this is Swoops. Swoops, Bitty.” Bitty waves to Swoops and tries to focus on the conversation, but Kent reclined against the pillows with an unbuttoned shirt— _Bitty’s shirt—_ is more than a little distracting, good Lord.

Bitty tunes back in when Swoops (who at some point started casually stripping out of his suit) asks, “So no club tonight?”

Kent shrugs and beckons for Bitty to curl back up with him. “Housewives is on.”

“Which one?” Swoops shrugs out of his button-up and tosses it on his bed.

“Orange County.”

“Shit, I’m in.” Swoops throws the jeans he was holding back into his suitcase and snags a pair of sweatpants instead. Then, he leaps into the bed dramatically and lands on Kent’s other side; Bitty squeaks in surprise and Kent laughs, ruffling his hair. They settle in together, Swoops pressed up against Kent’s side and Bitty nestled under his arm.

Bitty falls asleep halfway through a nasty feud in episode four. He wakes up to Kent running fingers through his hair and murmuring, “Hey Bits, it’s like three AM. I’ll drive you back if you want but, uh, you can crash here if you want.”

“The fuck?” Swoops grumbles, “since when—,”

“Shit, is it—Lord, where’s my phone?” Bitty tries to blink away the sleep-haze and grabs his cell from where he stashed it under the pillows. There’s plenty of chatter in the group text and two private messages from Lardo checking if he’s safe. He sends her a quick reply. Swoops is barely awake, muttering about someone going soft or being soft, Bitty can’t tell, but he crawls out of the bed and back to his own. Kent seems sleepy but lucid. His hair is a wreck and Bitty reaches out to smooth it down; it doesn’t work but he gets a smile in return. “I’ll stay.”

 

~*~

 

Bitty wakes up to snoring in his ear sometime around eight AM. Kent is sprawled like a starfish with half his body draped over Bitty’s, face nuzzled against his neck. “Bless your heart,” Bitty mutters, and wiggles out from under the small collection of limbs. He feels that awful combination of jittery and exhausted, just far enough away from the edge of sleep that he can’t sit still. The hotel room has a kitchenette, so Bitty swipes Kent’s hotel key and a pair of sweatpants and creeps down the block to a twenty four hour grocer for pancake ingredients. He makes it through one and a half batches undisturbed.

“Holy shit, I _love_ you.” Bitty wonders if it’s more or less weird that this particular sentence is uttered by the NHL player he _didn’t_ sleep with.

“Um, mornin’,” he laughs, and holds out a plate for Swoops.

“I’m supposed to say that,” Kent chirps from the bedroom doorway, still in nothing but boxers and Bitty’s flannel; his chest and stomach are peppered with the hickeys Bitty left behind, twinkling bruises that might form a constellation, if they were traced with a finger. Bitty really needs to pray more. He doesn’t deserve these blessings, he really doesn’t.

“Good morning? You still can, eh?”

“Is it too early in the morning to tell you to fuck off?” Kent complains, and meanders into the room to wrap his arms around Bitty’s waist and plant a kiss on his cheek.

Swoops ignores the comment and instead chirps, mouth full of pancakes (does no one have manners in the NHL?), “Seriously, if I wasn’t so entirely fucking straight I’d steal this kid from you.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘entirely.’ You did fall asleep in my bed and drool all over my fucking shoulder.”

“ _Real Housewives_ -fueled shoulder drooling is strictly platonic. We’ve discussed this, Parser.”

This is one of the weirdest conversations Bitty’s ever witnessed, and he lives with Shitty B. Knight. Also, he’s now very torn between needing to sanitize his shirt immediately and wanting to never wash it again. He finishes cooking the pancakes and sidles up next to Kent on the couch in the small living area.

Kent pulls at the waistband of Bitty’s sweatpants and accuses, “You stole these from me.”

“You’re one to talk, Mr. Parson,” Bitty shoots back, and tugs at the sleeve of his flannel. Kent just laughs and nabs half a pancake off Bitty’s plate.

 

~*~

 

They’re halfway through the walk to the train station when Kent looks over with a painfully neutral expression. “So, uh, about what this is—,”

Bitty’s been through this discussion before, or various kinds of it. At least with Parse he knows it won’t be his least favorite line ( _“I’m not really gay; I was just drunk”_ ). He brings a hand up to the Aces snapback on his head subconsciously, and says, “Oh, don’t worry. I wasn’t—I’m not expecting anything.”

“Uh…” Kent answers, his eyebrows somehow both furrowed and raised at the same time, “that’s not where I was going with that? But I mean—fuck, if you don’t—,”

“Maybe?” Bitty cuts in with a squeak, his brain suddenly scrambling to figure this all out. _Kent Parson_ can’t seriously be saying he wants to see him again, can he?

“I—okay,” Kent starts, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, “I was thinking—I thought maybe you’d want an open thing.”

Bitty raises an eyebrow, because it sounds like that’s being proposed for _his_ benefit, like it’s a clause Kent doesn’t want to need. And that doesn’t make any damn sense. “Why?”

Kent reaches out and pulls down the bill of Bitty’s hat. His eyes are trained straight ahead. “Scale of one to ten, how in love with him are you?”

Bitty doesn’t want to answer. He does anyway. “Seven.” _Still._

“That’s why.” Kent’s skin looks pale in the winter sunshine and his freckles sparkle stark in contrast.

Bitty doesn’t _want_ this to be how he wants it. He wants to ask Parse to be all his, to ask for a scary, monogamous, partially-closeted long distance relationship and to not want Jack in the back of his brain. He pushes against the want and it springs back solid against his touch. “Is that—are you really okay with that?”

Kent shrugs. “My number’s a ten today,” he says, as if that explains everything. In a way it does and Bitty tries to not let that make him sad.

 

They get to the station early and Kent pulls him into the men’s room to say goodbye with kisses, deep and needy and desperate. It ends too soon and when the train pulls away Kent is still standing at the terminal watching.

 

Almost everyone is already gone for winter break when Bitty gets back to the Haus, but Shitty and Lardo are on that biohazard of a couch watching TV. Shitty hounds him for deets while he packs for his flight back home, which leaves tomorrow morning, so he tells vague stories about a boy who is _definitely_ not Kent Parson. No, just an Aces fan he happened to meet at the party and then after the game in Boston. No one important.

 

~*~

 

They Skype for the first of many times two days after Bitty’s settled back in Madison, when Kent’s roadie is over and he’s curled up, exhausted, with Kit on his lap in a very nice king-sized bed that Bitty can’t help but picture himself sprawled on.

They talk about a little of everything, in the same erratic way they did the night they met. One minute Bitty is excitedly laying out his Christmas Eve plans (skating with his old hockey team and then wandering the town in search of froyo and the best Christmas lights) and the next Kent is casually mentioning what it was like to watch his father walk out two days before Thanksgiving when he was seven. His voice is always thick and blunt when he says something like that; Bitty thinks maybe that’s the only way he can get the words out at all.

Once Bitty’s family is asleep the clothes shed off and they come to the sight of each other’s bodies and low, breathy voices spilling out secret fantasies. Bitty falls asleep in the afterglow to pillow-talking Kent, and wakes up to the Skype session still open and Kent snoring on the other side of the screen.

 

He isn’t expecting the package that gets delivered to his door the day before Christmas Eve. There’s no return address, but the fact that it was shipped to “Bitty” instead of Eric Bittle makes it pretty clear who the culprit is. He buries his guilt at not being brave enough to send Kent a present (but honestly, that’s normally the kind of thing that gets _discussed_ ) and snapchats Kent a picture of the shipping label, chirping, “I’m starting to think u don’t know my real name.”

Kent is smiling sheepishly in his return picture. “Uh…”

It takes Bitty three tries to capture a flattering eye roll on camera. “Eric Bittle.”

“Noted. Open it today.” Kent is smirking now.

Bitty almost doesn’t listen, because it feels like sacrilege to open a Christmas present early, but in the end he rips open the packing tape and finds…an umbrella. He feels less bad about not getting Kent anything now, because _honestly_ , not only is an umbrella a ridiculous present, it’s an _Aces_ umbrella, which really shouldn’t be all that surprising but still makes him laugh. There’s a notecard too, signed with another cat doodle, that says, _“Thought this would come in handy.”_  

 

It rains _hard_ on Christmas Eve. Bitty stares at the umbrella with a very specific mix of confusion and awe and calls Kent.

“Hullo?” Kent answers groggily.

Bitty looks out the window at the downpour. “Did you—did you look up the weather forecast in Madison and send me this umbrella?”

“Uh, yeah? You said you were doing all that shit outside today, and I was like ‘wouldn’t it suck if it rained?’ and I looked and it _was_ gonna rain so I thought—okay, fuck, yeah, when you say it out loud it sounds _way_ creepier than it did in my head.” He laughs nervously.

Kent Parson has _negative_ chill; it’s kind of endearing, if not a little out of place. Bitty fiddles with the snapback on his nightstand and chirps, “You just wanted an excuse to make me use more Aces merch, didn’t you?”

Kent hesitates for a second before he chuckles and accepts the out. “You got me, Bits. Have fun today.”

“Thanks, hun.”

 

~*~

 

**_Jack (1:32 pm):_ ** _Merry Christmas._

**_Bitty (1:34 pm):_ ** _Merry Christmas to you too, Jack :)_

**_Jack (1:37 pm):_ ** _Have you been talking to Parse?_

**_Bitty (1:39 pm):_ ** _Yeah, why?_

**_Jack (1:45 pm):_ ** _Nothing. See you at practice next week._

 

~*~

 

It’s funny how quickly routines set in. Bitty gets back to Samwell and gets used to his new classes. He gets coffee with Jack Tuesdays and Thursdays and wakes up at 3:59 AM on Sundays, thirty seconds before the knock on his door. He waits for Kent’s text saying he’s free for the night and if it’s early enough, they Skype. Sometimes Bitty falls asleep before the messages come in, and those are the nights he knows Parse is with someone else. It’s not something they talk about, and Bitty wonders if they should, but he doesn’t know what he’d say if they did. He thinks if he brought it up, Kent would ask, _Scale of one to ten—_ and he’d have to answer, _seven._

 

~*~

 

It’s early February when Jack asks him, “Do you know?” interrupting the story he was telling about his new cookie recipe.

“…Um, yeah,” Bitty answers after a painful pause, and his fingers crush into his disposable coffee cup.

“You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“Hun—,” Bitty winces at himself, “Jack, of course not.”

Jack is tapping his fingers against the table. “Alright. Thanks, Bittle.” He doesn’t ask when or how Kent told him, doesn’t ask about Boston or the black snapback that finds itself on Bitty’s head most mornings when he leaves the Haus. The not-asking follows them around and keeps them held precisely at the tipping point of too close and impossibly far, like the way you can lean over the railing of a tall bridge that lets you feel like you’re falling without having to jump. The coffee dates get more frequent.

 

~*~

 

On Valentine’s Day, there’s a letter addressed to ‘Bitty’ in the Haus mailbox with no return address. It has a gift certificate for his favorite restaurant in town and a notecard that says, _“Since I can’t cook you dinner.”_ He goes with Lardo and they laugh when all the employees assume they’re a couple.

 

Somehow he’s relieved when Kent texts him early that night, even though he’d been expecting it. Kent has the flowers Bitty sent on his nightstand and a homemade cookie in his mouth when the video call goes through. They talk about their days for a while, until it’s past midnight and Kent asks, “You haven’t fucked anyone else since, have you?”

“N-no?” Bitty replies, thrown off-guard. It’s not like it’s been on purpose, just that he hasn’t really met anyone and Jack is being…Jack.

Kent’s face is careful, voice gentle when he follows with, “Does it bother you I have?”

He takes the time to think that over, tearing his eyes away from Kent’s blurry freckles to stare at his phone. He thinks about the feeling he gets on the nights Kent doesn’t call and confirms, internally, it’s just loneliness (because nights are better when Kent’s in them), not jealousy over what’s keeping him away. “Nah, you’re fine, honey.”

Kent nods thoughtfully, and when he slips out of his shirt there’s a wicked smirk on his face that makes Bitty shiver with anticipation. “…Wanna hear about it?”

“I—,” Bitty buys himself time by stripping off his own layers and sucks in a deep breath, “Absolutely.” He wonders what it means that his answer is always _yes_ when it comes to Kent and sex, like he’s being asked the exact question he wanted to hear all along. Or maybe he just likes being asked. Kent already has his hand down his pants, touching himself lazily. Bitty murmurs, “Take your clothes off so I can see.”

Kent chuckles, “Always so demanding, Bits,” but his hand slides away so he can slip down his sweatpants and boxers.

“I thought you liked me that way, Mr. Parson.”

“I fucking _love_ you that way.” And Bitty decides not to read into that, just finishes stripping down to his boxer-briefs and settles in for the ride. “You wanna hear about a guy or a chick?”

Bitty’s never thought about Kent fucking girls before. It’s a surprisingly hot image, given that he’s basically never had a sexual thought about a woman in his gay-as-a-jaybird life, and it probably has more to do with the fact that he’d be interested in pretty much anything involving Kent’s dick. But still, something to turn over. “A man, this time.”

“This time?” Kent raises an eyebrow and smirks at him.

“This time. Get talkin’, Parson,” Bitty snorts affectionately and drifts absent-minded fingers over himself through his underwear. He’s half-hard with anticipation, arousal shifting unhurried through his veins.

Kent, because he’s a chirpy asshole, stalls by bringing a hand back down to his cock, deliberately draws out the little moan in his throat and tips his head back, still smirking. Finally, his gaze focuses on the laptop again. His voice is husky but conversational, far more intimate than the way the boys talk deets over breakfast. “So there’s this great gay bar out in San Francisco, yeah? Fucking best margaritas I’ve ever had and I’m like, three of those in when the guy sits down next to me. He’s like, really fucking tan. Probably a local guy, a surfer or something, ‘cause he smells like the ocean.”

Kent closes his eyes; his eyelids flicker while goes over the memory. He’s stroking himself slowly, without much urgency; Bitty shucks out of his underwear and matches his pace. He continues, “So this guy—he’s got crazy long hair, longer than your friend Shitty’s and blond—this guy is real chill, telling me how he loves the city and he could show me around and shit, so I cut in and tell him I’m just in town for the night, that’s not really the kind of entertainment I’m looking for—,”

Bitty laughs, “That’s an awful line.”

“Yeah but you got it paired with my signature smolder, Bits. No one resists my smolder.” Bitty just snorts sassily and rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I tell him that and just like, brush my hand against his thigh and the guy practically fucking throws cash at the bartender to pay his tab. So we take a cab back to his place and this guy kisses so gently, Bits, like if he touches me for too long I’ll bite—which I do, as you know.”

Bitty shivers and touches himself with more intention, harder, longer strokes. He closes his eyes while Kent’s voice washes over him. “So I’ve got my hands in his hair and it’s all tangled like he’s been swimming and he smells like salt—like that big sea salt kind where you can count all the pieces—and he’s hard against my thigh already—,” Bitty bites down on his lip and whimpers a little and Kent’s breath catches audibly, “Fuck, Bits—and so I press up against him and ask, ‘What’re you into?’ and he says he likes to bottom but only if he’s come already? And I can work with that, fuck yeah, so—so I—,”

Bitty’s eyes roll open to watch Kent slide a finger into himself, arm hooked under his thigh to get the angle he likes, dropping the lube from his other hand to go back to touching his cock, too. Bitty has to squeeze fingers into his hip to keep from coming just at the sight of it. “So I lube up a finger and press inside and—and I’m trying to get my mouth on his dick but he keeps squirming, like I can’t fucking—so I gotta hold his hip down with the other hand and he makes this this grunting noise that just like, _fuck_ , you know?”

Bitty makes a strangled sound in response and fumbles for his lube. When the cap snaps open, Kent freezes in his story and watches, transfixed as Bitty starts to finger himself. Kent’s known this is something Bitty enjoys, but he’s never _watched_ and apparently it’s having quite the effect. “Fuck, Bits—you’re so—what the fuck—how’m I supposed to— _fuck.”_ Kent practically sobs the last word, punctuates the thought by sliding a second finger inside himself.

“Focus, honey,” Bitty chirps, but his voice has gone a little shaky and he doesn’t dare go back to touching his cock; he’s good at working with his own fingers, good enough that he’s worried about coming too soon as it is. But he can’t stop fingering himself, feels like he’s trapped in the slick slide of it, helpless in his own pleasure.

“Right, fuck, I—so I get him held down and he—he’s thick, and he tastes—fuck, and—Bits, look at you, you’re so fucking—Christ, I lo—love how you look like this—,”

“Kent—,”

“I know but I can’t—you’re _perfect,_ Eric—just, how—,” Kent’s breathing is ragged and he’s entirely wrecked, even less in control of himself than Bitty, writhing in his bed errantly, “how’m I supposed to—look at you like—I miss you so much—like fucking hell—and—and—,”

“I miss you too,” Bitty says and Kent comes, hips snapping off the bed and whatever words he was trying to get out shattering into a desperate keen that punches the air out of Bitty’s lungs. While Kent pants through aftershocks, mouth slack and eyes squeezed shut, Bitty takes himself back in hand and strokes furiously, coming thick and long-awaited across his stomach with a whimper.

Kent is laughing softly, like he often does after an orgasm, when Bitty blinks back to himself a few moments later. “Sorry that got derailed,” he says, but he doesn’t look sorry at all, his eyes droopy and gray in the soft light of his bedroom.

“Honey, I’m not sure why you’d ever apologize for making me come like that, _Lord,”_ Bitty sighs, fumbling for the tissues he’s started keeping on his nightstand entirely because of Kent. “Have you—have you done that before?”

Kent grins. “Fucked a dude I met in a gay bar in San Francisco? Yeah, actually, wanna—,”

“You stop right there,” Bitty scolds, but there’s no bite in his words, “Lord, I don’t know how you’re already ready for another round but I ain’t. I meant—have you done that kinda dirty talkin’ before?”

“You are literally just that hot, babe. My dick is obsessed with you.” Bitty snorts and Kent winks at him. “But uh, no? Been thinking ‘bout it for a while though. You’re really the only—I don’t have a harem of secret Skype boyfriends or anything? So like, this is kinda new shit for me.”

Bitty nods and slips under the covers, nestling Señor Bun against his side. “I liked it. I’d—if you wanted—I’d do that again.”

“Hell yeah, especially if—,” Kent laughs self-deprecatingly, running a hand through his hair, “I dunno if you _noticed,_ but watching you finger yourself fucked me up to fucking hell, Bits.”

“I noticed,” Bitty answers wryly.

“Makes me—makes me wanna fuck you like that.” Kent’s voice is dropping low and soft again, like he’s half a mind to come again before the night’s over. “I—if you’re into that, ‘cause—Christ, just thinking about being inside you, Bits.”

Bitty watches him for a moment, the way his head is tipped back against the pillows, hand drawing nonsensical shapes across his stomach like it could drop to his cock at any moment. It _does_ things to Bitty, immensely rough and warm things, that Kent can come twice in one night just from thinking of him. And right now Kent is imagining— _good Lord._ “Yeah, I’d—I’d try that.”

Kent rolls his head forward again to look at him, a little more seriously. “Have you bottomed before? You never talk about it.”

“Um,” Bitty’s lips twitch, but he’s not sure what expression they’re trying to make. “Yeah, and it—it’s always been _fine,_ I mean, I like sex and all but it—Lord, honey, it was nothin’ like fucking you—,” Bitty, as nervous as he is to be admitting this, doesn’t miss the shocked pleasure that flutters across Kent’s face, “and I don’t know if it’s—well, if it’s because I just like toppin’ that much more, or, well—or—or if maybe it’s because it’s with you? Because you’re so—you’re so good to me, honey, better’n—just, there’s something—Lord, I don’t even know what I’m sayin’ anymore.”

Bitty is blushing _deeply_ and Kent is mostly hard again, and they could probably have a whole separate conversation about why that is but right now they need to finish this one, because Kent whispers, _“Fuck,”_ and runs a jittery hand through his hair. “I—Bitty, I mean—fuck, you know you’re—I’ve had a lot of sex, okay? And you’re—it’s—it’s really fucking _great_ with you, okay? Even like this—,” he gestures at his laptop screen, at his empty bed, “even when I can’t—and I love what we have and I don’t want you to think—you know you don’t have to try the shit I talk about if you don’t want to, right?”

“No, I—honey, I know that, don’t you worry.” Bitty’s still blushing, but he offers up a reassuring smile. “I—good Lord, I hope you know how much I—I really _enjoy_ trying things with you, Kent.”

“You—I—,” Kent does his bewildered laugh, the one that’s just as much an expression as it is a stalling tactic, but his mouth runs off without him anyway, “fuck, when it’s summer and we have all this time together? There’s so much I wanna do with you Bits. Like I got these handcuffs that—well, actually, first of all you gotta meet Kit ‘cause, like, I think she’s getting fucking _pissed_ she hasn’t—shit, I’m treating the cat like a human again—but I swear to God she’s been temperamental lately and it’s—um, you okay?”

Bitty blinks to break the glazed look he’s apparently been sporting. “Um, yeah, I just—you want to spend the summer with me?”

“Um,” Kent looks caught out, like his hand’s been in the proverbial cookie jar, “yeah? You’re—why _wouldn’t_ I want to? You’re my boyfriend and you’re fucking awesome. Is that—am I being weird?”

“No, honey, it’s not like that, it’s—,” Bitty scrambles to sort through his muddled feelings, “it’s just a little overwhelming to think of things that are so far away. Why don’t—why don’t you tell me about something we can do now, or the next time you see me?”

Kent nods and bites his lip, thoughtful. “Uh, yeah, I can—I’d like it if you called me names.”

Bitty purses his lips. He hadn’t necessarily meant another sex thing but—maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. “Um, like—what kind?”

“Like—like slut, whore, shit like that. But like—I mean, you can get dirty with it—but like, if you could make it feel like you kind of like me that way. Like you know how fucked up I am and you still want me.” Kent is blushing, and that’s a rare thing. It makes Bitty’s chest tight.

“Okay, we can talk about this more, but—honey,” he says softly, “I _do_ want you the way you are. You know that, right?”

Kent looks away from the camera. “Yeah.”

 

~*~

 

Bitty was actually considering making out with this guy, if only because he’s that deep into the tub juice and it’d make a nice story to tell Kent. But then—Greg, Bitty thinks—went and spilled almost a full Solo cup’s worth of beer on Bitty’s favorite tank top, which is really a mood killer, and Bitty peels Greg’s hand off his ass to flee up the stairs and change. The beer is thoroughly soaked through and makes the tank cling uncomfortably to his chest.

**_Bitty (12:34 am):_ ** _Hottest guy at the party just spilled beer all over me_

**_Bitty (12:34 am):_ ** _NOT the kind of sticky I was hoping to end up tonight_

**_Kent (12:37 am):_ ** _*2nd hottest ur the 1st_

**_Kent (12:37 am):_ ** _Also ew_

Bitty rolls his eyes at the compliment and fumbles to unlock his door through the alcohol-haze. He’s not all the way to drunk but he’s certainly past tipsy. He makes it inside the bedroom and locks the door behind him.

**_Kent (12:39 am):_ ** _Thats y u gotta come clubbing w me_

**_Kent (12:39 am):_ ** _Im v classy_

**_Kent (12:39 am):_ ** _Ill only spill martinis on u_

He flings the tank top off; it lands on the ground with a discouraging wet slapping sound. _Gross._ His chest feels tacky and he wonders if he should take a shower, but it might be a little weird to do that in the middle of a kegster.

**_Kent (12:41 am):_ ** _Fffffuck I miss u_

Bitty stares at the phone for a few moments. His chest aches. If he closes his eyes he can almost feel Kent wrapped around him, mouthing at his chest and complaining about how cheap the beer tastes compared to his skin.

**_Bitty (12:45 am):_ ** _Miss you too honey_

**_Bitty (12:45 am):_ ** _Have fun tonight_

**_Kent (12:45 am):_ ** _yessir ;)_

Kent is down in Florida, celebrating a hard game win against the Panthers. Bitty starts to rustle through his drawers looking for another shirt when he hears a window open and shut, followed by the creak of the roof. That’s really not good. The Reading Room is supposed to be off-limits during kegsters because _really,_ drunk college students do not mix well with tall places, like, _honestly_ it would be so easy for someone to fall right off and break a damn arm, so Bitty stumbles over to his window to shoo whoever it is back inside and— _oh_.

“Jack?” Bitty crawls through his window onto the flat roof, bracing himself against the siding.

“Ah, Bittle, um—,” Jack looks up from the reading lamp he’d just dragged outside, and stares for longer than is probably _strictly_ necessary at Bitty’s bare chest. “You’re—um—,”

It’s not particularly hot for early March, but Bitty blames the heat rising to his face on the weather anyway. “Oh, I—someone spilled beer on me downstairs, so—I thought you were a drunk person about to fall off the roof,” he laughs and takes his hand off the wall to move closer, wobbling a little as he does so, judging by the way Jack stands nervously.

“I think—ah—you seem to have that role filled nicely, eh?” Jack clasps a hand on Bitty’s shoulder to steady him and pull him back away from the edge.  Bitty leans into his side, pulling at Jack’s shirt to stabilize (which he probably could have done without, but he’s only human, for goodness’ sake).

“Ain’t drunk,” he protests, smiling up through his eyelashes, “just got a li’l off-balance.” He can feel the tightening of Jack’s stomach when he loosens his grip on the shirt, pressing his hand flatter instead.

Jack chuckles, “Alright, Bittle.” His eyes drop down low again and Bitty shivers. He can feel the little hitch in Jack’s breathing. “Ah—are you cold? You could go—um—go get—,”

“What, and ruin your view?” Bitty chirps. Shit, maybe he’s drunker than he thought. Or Kent is just rubbing off on him. “I ain’t that selfish, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Jack’s eyes snap up guiltily. He sputters, “Um, I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—ah—,”

Bitty giggles and takes pity, flicking his eyes to the book in Jack’s hand. “What were you gonna read?”

“What—oh, it’s for my thesis. It’s an autobiography by a German general who—,” Jack recovers from the conversational whiplash and sinks down into one of the lawn chairs while he talks, scooting his legs to one side so Bitty can squeeze in, angled against the arm of the chair with his legs draped over Jack’s lower thighs. He tries to focus on what Jack’s saying, something about the humanization of the enemy, but the whole thing is a little heady for this time of night after that much tub juice, so he mostly just stares at Jack’s face, the way his eyes go bright and his lips stretch into an earnest smile when he talks about history. “—and that’s the basics of it.”

Bitty smiles and chirps, “Sounds like you know the whole thing already.”

Jack’s grin is sheepish. “I read it a few years ago, just—well, since it seemed interesting. But I need more than that for my thesis, eh?”

Bitty nods and checks his phone while he weighs options. “Want some company while you read?”

“Ah, sure, but—you’re not going back to the party? It’s early for you, right?”

He shrugs. “Gettin’ a whole beer dumped down my shirt sorta killed the vibe.” Which is mostly true, even though he’s leaving out the part where he’d still give up a significantly _better_ party to sit on a roof in present company.

“Alright.” Jack offers a tiny smile and grabs his book. The music and shouts from the kegster drift up to the roof, but in the muffled way that Bitty, at least, has always found comforting. It reminds him of summer nights in Georgia and the drone of cicadas. Jack turns on his reading lamp and cracks open his book, then leans back against the lawn chair. His arm bumps against Bitty’s side when he settles, knuckles grazing against his bare hipbone.

Neither of them moves away, and as Jack starts to read, flipping the pages with his left hand, Bitty holds a breath for courage and leans in, pressing his cheek against Jack’s upper arm. There’s a moment of hesitation, the twitching of fingers. Jack slips his arm around and snuggles Bitty closer, so his head slips down and nestles against his chest. Bitty swears he feels his own heart stutter and restart again. He aches with love, a strange tightness in his chest that makes him want to whisper confessions into the fabric of Jack’s Samwell t-shirt. He looks up at Jack’s face, the impossibly sharp cheekbones, the unbearably soft blue eyes. Jack looks over at him, briefly, and smiles.

Bitty drowses off after maybe fifteen minutes, if he’s being generous. He sleeps lightly, some nook of his brain dimly aware of the way Jack’s fingers trace little lines back and forth along the side of his hip, the musky smell of fading deodorant mingling with late-night sweat, Jack occasionally muttering to himself in French as he flips through pages.

Eventually, Jack nudges him awake and murmurs, “Bittle, the party’s wound down. I’m gonna head to bed.”

“Mm,” he replies, stretching out with a yawn, lingering with his muscles pulled tight and his head pressed deeper against Jack’s chest. “D’you always stay up the whole time?” He’d always figured that Jack turned in early, after a trip or two downstairs to check on the frogs, after the slice of pie Bitty usually finds himself sneaking upstairs to leave for him.

“Yeah, it’s, ah—hard to sleep with the noise.” Jack clicks off his lamp as Bitty sits up and massages his brow. He’s mostly sober and feeling on the wrong side of dehydrated. “And I guess—actually, it’s mostly that I just worry, actually. It’s hard to sleep without knowing the team gets home okay, eh?”

“I didn’t know you did that,” Bitty tells him, trying to hide his shivers. It’s decidedly too cold to still be shirtless and covered in sticky beer.

Jack shrugs and stands, offering a hand to help Bitty to his feet. “You’re usually in your room already, by the last time I check on things.” Their hands are lingered together, caught awkwardly at the fingertips. Bitty wants to slip his hand in close, tug their bodies together and lift up, up to meld their lips in something slow and languid. He thinks they could stop time with the way they’d kiss. He’s almost brave enough to see. Instead the friction gives and their hands fall away as Jack stammers, “I, uh—speaking of which, I should—you know.”

“Oh, um, yeah. Yeah.” Bitty smiles up at Jack faintly.

“Yeah, alright, ah—see you…later today?”

Bitty laughs softly, “Yeah. Have a good night, Jack.” He turns back towards his window reluctantly.

“Oh, Bittle?” Jack calls, then hesitates when Bitty whips back around, maybe a little too eagerly. “Um, just—thanks for the company.” He cracks a smile that makes Bitty’s stomach tingle and holds out his hand for a fistbump. Bitty beams up at him for a few extra moments before they both turn and climb back inside through their respective bedrooms. He checks his phone for the first time since waking back up, shaking his head in disbelief as he hears Jack creeping down the stairs.

**_Kent (1:55 am):_ ** _jsut got bak_

**_Kent (1:55 am):_ ** _u awake??_

**_Bitty (2:31 am):_ ** _Sorta you still there?_

**_Kent (2:31 am):_ ** _Hell yeah_

**_Bitty (2:32 am):_ ** _K, one sec :)_

Bitty heads down the hallway to his bathroom, stepping over Nursey, who for some awful reason decided to curl up right near the staircase and fall asleep (Lord help these frogs), and scrubs himself relatively clean of beer. After that, he curls into bed, Señor Bun snuggled up against his chest, and calls up Kent.

 

~*~

 

It’s a Monday night at the end of March. Bitty peeks his head into the Haus den, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious in his Parson jersey, and takes stock. Jack, Shitty, and Lardo are reclined on the couch watching some sort of documentary while Dex and Nursey bicker from somewhere else in the Haus. Ransom and Holster are shoved together in a loveseat scrolling through ESPN articles. He clears his throat. “Uh, hi guys, so—,”

“Bitty! Bro, how was the game?” Ransom cuts in.

Bitty ignores the question and continues, “Kent Parson is outside.” Jack’s head snaps up. Well, frankly, so does everyone else’s, but his response feels different. Tense instead of excited.

Lardo smirks. “So pretty good then?”

“Just—can we not make a fuss? No emergency kegsters or anything? Because—,”

“What if I want an emergency kegster?” Kent pulls Bitty’s cap down over his eyes and flashes his signature smirk to the room.

“No parties,” Jack warns sternly, directed at Ransom and Holster, pointedly avoiding Kent, “It’s a school night.” He glues his eyes back to the television and turns up the volume on the documentary.

The room erupts into a debate over what the alcohol to person ratio has to be before it’s considered a party. Dex and Nursey wander back in and freeze mid-argument when they see Kent. They squish up against Shitty on one end of the couch, Dex staring openly and Nursey pretending not to care. Bitty elbows Kent in the ribs and mutters, “I told you to stay outside while I talked to them, Mr. Parson.”

“That you did, Bits. Guess I’m feeling naughty today.” Kent winks and saunters into the kitchen, likely in search of alcohol. Bitty bites his lip and claims the only unoccupied seat, a recliner chair angled near the couch so it faces the TV. The ruckus has settled a little by the time Kent comes back from the kitchen with a beer in his hand. He looks around at the occupied couch and chairs, and his gaze settles on Bitty, stretched out alone. “You hogging the last open seat, Itty Bitty?”

Bitty shrugs. He’s never really enjoyed the group contact that nearly everyone in the Haus partakes in; even Dex warmed up to it, after a while. It makes him a little nervous, to be honest, which probably has something to do with the fact that an uncomfortable majority of his human contact has been being shoved against lockers or into broom closets by people the relative size and shape of all his new friends. “I ain’t in a hurry to share,” he drawls playfully.

Apparently that was a mistake, because Kent takes it as a challenge, raising an eyebrow before sauntering over and plopping down straight into Bitty’s lap.

“Oh my _goodness,”_ Bitty gasps, shoving at Kent’s shoulder, “get off me, you big lug!”

Kent laughs, “I’m not _that_ big, Bits.”

“You’re _heavy,”_ he huffs. And while, strictly speaking, Kent isn’t so heavy he’d be entirely opposed to recreating this pose later tonight, he’s still enjoying kicking up the fuss (not to mention their relationship is _technically_ a secret even though Kent’s never expressed concern about it).

“Look, Bits, I know you like being on top,” Kent snickers _loudly,_ “but you should try new things.” Case in point.

“Lord, you are so—,”

“Charming?” Kent wiggles a little and leans back, like he’s settling in, but also like he wants to rub his ass on Bitty’s crotch.

_“—insubordinate,”_ Bitty corrects with a sardonic drawl.  

Kent leans in and says, “You love it,” and he has the nerve to let his nose brush against Bitty’s temple while he does.

It’s the kind of statement that has a question buried in it and Bitty is busy trying to figure out what to do about that when he realizes the entire room is staring. Lardo is snickering at Shitty’s expression. Dex leans over and whispers something into Nursey’s ear, who shoots back a _dude, chill_ and gets flicked in the head for his trouble. Ransom and Holster are gaping and Jack—Jack is already halfway up the stairs. His heavy footsteps and an almost-slammed door punctuate the silence.

Holster breaks the tension in his usual way: loudly and awkwardly. “So, uh, that was a sex thing, right? Like it’s not just me, everyone’s getting that vibe?”

At least three people shush him. Kent raises an apologetic eyebrow at Bitty, who shrugs. This was always Kent’s secret, not his, and he’s really not sure how he should be expected to talk his way out of Kent Parson sitting in his lap and flirting shamelessly with him, so _honestly_ this is a bit out of his control. “Uh…” Kent trails, looking around the room, “don’t tell the media?” He shifts to the side so his weight isn’t bearing down directly on Bitty anymore, his legs draped over Bitty’s thighs, and slings an arm around his shoulders.

Shitty looks a little shell-shocked, but he recovers and shouts, _“You fuckin’ beauts!”_ soon enough, which was about the reaction Bitty was expecting.

“Wait… _shit,_ really?” Holster gapes.

Ransom whispers, “Bro.”

“Bro, did we just crack Hickeygate?”

“We just—,” Ransom’s voice raises, “Bitty, were you behind Hickeygate?”

Bitty scowls, “I don’t see how that’s any of y’all’s business,” at approximately the same time Kent winks and says, “’Chyeah.”

Chowder pokes his head into the room, out of breath and cheeks flushed. “What’s ‘Hickeygate?’ Is it—oh, my gosh! It’s—Kent Parson—oh no, I’m not—you beat my team on Thursday! But I’m still happy to see you! Hi! Hi Bitty!”

“Hey, Chowder, right? I’d say sorry we beat the Sharks, but—,”

“His therapist says he needs to lie less,” Bitty finishes with an eyeroll. He’s heard the line more than once before.

“That’s my _favorite_ joke,” Kent tells him, with half-mock offense, “Why would you _ruin_ it for me like that?” The room is watching them carefully still, like they’re trying to suss out just how deep all of this runs. Bitty really only likes this much direct attention when he’s tipsy and dancing (his vlog doesn’t count; he edits the heck out of that), but if it bothers Kent, he hides it well. The hand on Bitty’s shoulders slips down to rub along his lower back in soft circles; he leans into the contact, grateful.

“Honey,” he laughs, trying to slip back into the ease he’d felt when Kent first sat down, before it occurred to him they had an audience, “you’ll have to find some better jokes if you don’t want me to ruin ‘em.”

Kent smirks and ruffles Bitty’s hair with his free hand. “I’ll see what I can do.”

 

“Ugh,” Bitty groans that night, after the Haus has mostly quieted, “I’m _so_ sorry about them.”

Kent does his weird furrowed/raised eyebrow combination and lifts his snapback to run his fingers through his hair. “What, the Hickeygate thing? Are you—I’m not pissed about being outed; it’s been an open secret in the league for like, fucking years and the top hasn’t blown yet—are you upset about it?”

“Um, not—it’s not like they don’t know I’m gay,” and he hates how his voice still hitches at the end. Shouldn’t he be able to say the damn word by now? “It was just…unexpected, I guess and—and it’s not that I don’t trust them, but why aren’t you more worried about this getting out? Honey, it could affect your career and—,”

“Fuck my career,” Kent deadpans, kicking off his shoes and flopping back onto the bed. He laughs at Bitty’s shocked face. “I mean, not _actually,_ but I’m probably the most well-positioned guy in the NHL to get hit with it if I did get outed. And there’s _way_ worse shit to get outed with than having the cutest fucking boyfriend—don’t look at me like that, you are, God—cutest boyfriend on the planet. Seriously, babe—,” he reaches out and grabs Bitty’s hand, “you’re more than worth what could come from this.”

Bitty never knows what to do with praise like that. He’s not really sure what brings it on with Kent, honestly. He just runs off on tangents like that, the same way his mother back in Georgia might throw in a comment about the weather in the middle of some juicy gossip. _You’re worth it,_ like it’s a casual truth. So he climbs onto the bed, crouching over Kent’s chest, and mutters through his blush, “You know, Mr. Parson, flattery will only get you so far.”

Kent runs his tongue over his bottom lip, voice suddenly pitched low, and asks, “What gets me the rest?” He brings his hands up to rest on Bitty’s hips, letting his fingers slip up under the hem of his jersey, springing goosebumps to life on the bare skin. _Lord._

“Asking,” Bitty tells him, and there’s something about the way he gets hands gripped tight on his waist that makes him drop his mouth down low against Kent’s ear and add, “Maybe begging.” Kent tugs at the jersey in a silent plea and Bitty shrugs out of it.

Reverent fingers trace over his abs, his chest. “Please, can you—will you talk to me like we talked about?”

Bitty’s breath catches and he’s suddenly, impossibly harder than he was before. His voice drops low and dark. “You want me to call you names? Want me to tell you what a dirty slut you are, darling?” They’ve been waiting to try this kind of talk; Bitty was uncomfortable doing it over Skype, when they didn’t have a real, grounding comfort in each other’s touch. But maybe he’s been practicing in the mirror when no one’s in the Haus, letting the words become familiar on his tongue.

“Jesus fucking Christ, yes,” Kent breathes, “you’re so—I missed you. Will you—I need—I really fucking missed you.”

“Kent,” Bitty manages, despite an ache in his chest that’s gumming up his lungs, “missed you too.” Their mouths snap together like the crack of a rubber-band, lips catching between teeth, tongues slipping in to re-learn details that escaped over the months— _fucking months—_ between before and now. Layers shift and shed in piles around the bed until they’re stripped to underwear and rutting, Kent crowded against the wall but arching up and away, towards Bitty’s skin as if it calls him home.

There are three hickeys on Kent’s neck before he speaks again. “Bits, fuck—you’re so—Jesus—please, I need—just need you to fuck me again.”

“You’ve been such a slut while you’ve been gone,” Bitty murmurs, nipping at Kent’s collarbone, “Are you sure that’s all you need? Sure you haven’t gotten greedy from all the dick you’ve been getting?” He knows what Kent’s answer is, feels it in the way Kent digs his fingers into his back. But Kent still surprises him.

“No, never, I—I’m your slut, it’s all—,” He slides down the wall until he’s mostly flush with the mattress, propped up lightly on his forearms. He nuzzles at Bitty through the well-worn fabric of his boxer-briefs. It’s gentle, almost jarringly so. “I want anything you give me, just—Christ, I love it when you pull my hair, _fuck_ —just _please. Fuck,_ babe, please.”

Bitty tightens his grip in Kent’s hair and pushes him closer, makes a pleased little noise in the back of his throat when Kent presses his mouth to his cock, soaking his underwear through with spit and sucking hungrily. He tugs the briefs down and hunts for bare skin. “Oh Lord, honey, so greedy for it—wait.” Kent stills immediately and looks up through his pale eyelashes, his fingers still hooked in the waistband of Bitty’s briefs, swollen lips just barely pressed to Bitty’s head and smeared with the precome there. If Bitty could take a picture he would, and the thought makes his chest go tight again. “If you do that, I won’t be able to last inside you, good Lord.”

Kent pouts a little but pulls away, dragging his tongue across his lips. Bitty bites down gently on his knuckles to keep from sobbing with want. He finishes undressing and Kent mirrors him, then tugs at his hips to urge him down so they can kiss again. Bitty pulls away after a moment, relishing in the way Kent’s teeth tug at his lips on the way apart, and murmurs, “Tell me what you want again.”

_“Fuck me,”_ Kent groans immediately, and Bitty shushes him with a giggle, “Sorry—please, I just—I, fuck—please.”

“I have an idea,” Bitty whispers, dragging his fingers down Kent’s chest. He pulls away, shivers at how Kent’s fingers catch on his wrists, tug back a little. “Oh hush, just hold on.”

His condoms and lube are buried under two layers of winter sweaters in his closet; he digs them out and lobs the bottle to Kent, who smirks at him and snaps the cap open.

Kent’s got a finger buried in himself by the time Bitty makes it back to the bed. He’s watched Kent finger himself countless times over Skype, but it still doesn’t compare to how breathtaking it is in person. So Bitty tells him as much, and Kent throws his head back in a preening, throaty chuckle.

“Fuck, I—wanna help me?” Bitty kisses him, then, deep and slow, running his hands along strong muscles, savoring the lines of the body underneath him. He fumbles for the lube and coats a finger that he brings down to Kent’s hole and presses in slowly, following the rhythm Kent sets and the crook of his finger. “Fuck, oh my God holy shit Jesus fuck—Jesus—fucking—Christ—this is—,” Kent pants, squirming around their joint touch.

“Yeah,” Bitty agrees. He’s so hard it’s starting to hurt, honestly, and it feels so _good_ to be fingering Kent while he does it too, so intimate that it almost scares him. They each work another finger inside, Kent first, moaning in breathy spurts against Bitty’s neck, Bitty following shortly after. “Honey, you’re so loose—so good for me, honey.”

“Am I?” Kent asks, his voice low and gripping, “Am I good for you?”

“Honey, _of course,”_ he murmurs softly, feeling the soft shudder around his fingers, “You’re my little whore, Kenny. My good little whore.” Bitty reaches out with his free hand, brushes his fingers up through Kent’s cowlick. Kent chases the contact, tilting his head back and rolling his eyes up, smoldering.

“Fuck me?” It’s soft, a question.

Bitty nods slowly, smiles. “C’mere,” he says, and crawls backwards until he’s pressed up against the headboard, pillows nestled up against the small of his back. He pats his thighs, which he hopes is seductive but might just be a little awkward. “Since you like my lap so much, Mr. Parson.”

Kent smirks and slinks forward on his hands and knees, which Bitty would find a little silly if it wasn’t the hottest thing he’s ever seen. “You want me to ride you?” Kent asks, pressing his lips against Bitty’s neck. It’s too hard to form words when he does that thing with his tongue, _good Lord,_ so Bitty just makes a little affirming noise in his throat. Kent breathes, “Fuck yeah. Fuck yeah.”

He rolls the condom on himself while Kent mouths at his chest and dribbles lube on top. They line up, shuddering with expectation, as Kent eases down. His eyes flutter shut when Bitty pops inside and arches upwards with an, “Oh, Lord.”

“Fuck, Jesus—it’s so good, babe—,” Kent groans, probably as quietly as he can manage but still too loud, “Christ—you inside me, it—I missed this—needed this.”

“Kent, honey— _ooh_ —,” Kent starts moving, a tantalizing little rocking motion, and it takes a moment for Bitty to get his composure back enough to finish the thought, “we need to be—sweet Lord, do that again—quieter.”

“Can’t—you feel—,” he pants and speeds up, his arm muscles bulging as he pushes up to angle himself better, “fuck, oh my _fucking Christ_ , fucking— _umph_ —,” without thinking, Bitty’s hand goes up and wraps around Kent’s mouth, presses down to muffle the incredibly indecent noises he’d prefer the entire Haus didn’t chirp him for in the morning. Then, his eyes go wide.

Bitty whispers, “Shit, sorry—I should’ve—is this okay?” Kent makes a garbled sound that sounds suspiciously like _fuck yeah_ and drags his tongue across Bitty’s fingers, nips with his teeth. “Oh Lord, Kent, you’re such a good slut for me—I can’t believe I make you—make you—,”

Kent nudges Bitty’s hand away and leans in close. His voice is painfully soft and trembling with the effort. “I’d scream for you Bits. You make me—fuck—make me wanna shout it—scream how good you are—people would call the cops, think you’re—fucking—killing me.”

“You’re being so good,” Bitty pants, tracing his thumb over the perfect freckles on the bridge of Kent’s nose. “So good, so quiet—.” His hand drops down to wrap around Kent’s erection. He grinds up as he starts stroking and Kent gasps, fumbles for a pillow to smash in his face and _does_ scream, muffled shouts into the plush, teeth sunk in so deep Bitty thinks the fabric might rip. Kent bounces on him and Bitty ruts up with his eyes rolled back into his head and gasps, “Fuck, sweetheart, such a slut for me. Can’t keep your little whore mouth shut, can you? Can’t—,”

Kent comes in long strips down Bitty’s stomach while he screams into Bitty’s favorite pillow, tight and trembling and pulling Bitty over the edge too. They ride their aftershocks together until Kent collapses, panting damp heat onto Bitty’s neck.

“Fucking Christ,” Kent sighs, spent and sticky.

“Sweet Lord in Heaven,” Bitty agrees, rubbing a hand up and down Kent’s back as he pulls out gently. He considers the benefits, briefly, of just falling asleep then and there, crushed under Kent’s weight and covered in lube and come. But Kent rolls off with a grunt and offers to trudge off in search of a washcloth.

They clean up and lay in bed, Bitty the little spoon this time, snug against Kent’s sculpted chest, safe. He sighs contentedly while Kent murmurs in his ear, a steady stream of affection that makes his heart burst. _You’re so good, Eric, so kind. You’re sweet and strong and I—you’re so good._ And he’s used to all that, has heard it all before crackling through his laptop speakers late at night from miles away. But the last thing he hears before he falls asleep is this: “Sometimes you make me so happy it scares me.”

It wraps around his lungs and he can’t figure out how to say, _me too_ , but he feels it deep in his bones and presses back against every inch of skin he can manage, like they could melt together and then Kent would know.

 

He startles awake to his blaring phone alarm and Kent cursing intensely. “Sorry, honey, go back to sleep,” he murmurs, silencing his phone and brushing away Kent’s cowlick, “I’m just gonna—class—but I’ll be back.” Kent makes an agreeing sound in the back of his throat and buries his face in a pillow.

Bitty gets ready quickly, fits his cap onto his head, and heads downstairs where Holster, Lardo, Jack, and Shitty are eating breakfast before the food class they all take together. Ransom is there too; he has a class that starts at the same time. Holster looks up from his muffin and greets loudly, “Yo, Bits! Didn’t think we’d see you this morning. Morning sex not your thing?”

“Uh—.” Bitty had thought about skipping, but this is his favorite class of the semester, and the chirping for missing it would be awful. Plus, he would probably get restless, since this is one of the few days of the week they don’t have morning practice and the extra sleep makes him all jittery.

“Bro,” says Ransom, “that is _totally_ the face of a man who got laid last night. Deets.”

“Is Parse good in bed? I bet he’s great in bed.”

“He _sounded_ great in bed. Not that I heard anything. You were definitely _super_ quiet.”

“Guys—,”

Jack clears his throat. “This is inappropriate.”

Holster rolls his eyes and argues, “Look, Jack, I get you’d rather talk about pussy, but that doesn’t mean Bitty shouldn’t get to dish on getting some dick.”

A dark, pained scowl flashes over Jack’s face and Bitty’s heart wrenches. Jack pushes up out of his chair and dumps a half-full mug of coffee down the drain. “See everyone in class.” Bitty tries to meet his eyes when he walks past to flash an apology, but Jack trains his gaze solidly on the floor as he stalks away.

“Sorry, Bits, dunno what the fuck his problem is,” Holster grumbles.

Shitty points out, “I think it’s more of a ‘Kent Parson’ thing.”

“Well, I still want deets.”

Bitty bites his lip. He’s always felt a little uncomfortable talking about his sex life in detail; everyone says they don’t mind, but it still feels different than when the others do it. “Um, I shouldn’t, really, I mean—,”

“Parse doesn’t seem like he’d care.”

“Yeah, brah,” Shitty pipes up, “hit us with those deets.”

“I don’t really feel—,”

Lardo rescues him. “You don’t have to go into detail if you don’t want, brah. Share what you want.”

Bitty takes a large bite of his muffin and dumps creamer into his coffee to buy time and steady himself. “It’s…great, actually. Really great and—and different. Things…I didn’t know I wanted.” There’s a soft smile on his face now as he stirs his coffee. Everyone seems to be expecting him to say more, but there’s nothing he feels like he needs to add.

 

There’s still a chill in the air when they trudge to class. Bitty’s coffee hasn’t really kicked in and it’s an early lecture; he thumps his head against Shitty while they walk, who pats his head affectionately. Jack has saved them all seats in their row despite his foul mood, and Bitty slides in next to him as always.

“I’m so sorry about earlier,” he whispers, “I don’t know what got into them.”

Jack purses his lips and flips open his notebook. “Let’s talk after class.”

No one waits for them when the lecture gets out; they’re used to Jack and Bitty taking their time to pack up. Usually it’s because of all their chirping, but today there’s a forced silence that has Bitty biting at his bottom lip with worry. As soon as they step outside, Jack turns and tells him bluntly, “I don’t think you should date Parse.”

Caught off guard, Bitty just stares at him, gaping. There are several reasons he can think of why Jack would say that; he doesn’t even know where to begin. “Um, why—is this because—because of you and me?”

Jack seems genuinely confused. “What? No, that’s—I don’t have—he’s just not good enough for you.”

Bitty feels his heart sinking into his stomach. So maybe he’s been wrong about this thing between him and Jack. “I—that’s not true. He’s—Kent is really good to me. We—we have fun, and—,”

“Crisse, Bittle, this isn’t some frat boy you can fuck and cross off your list—,”

_“Excuse_ me?”

“—he’ll _hurt_ you.” Jack is staring at the ground, visibly upset, hands clenched tight.

_Sometimes you make me so happy it scares me._ Bitty can hear it perfectly, can conjure back up the tender vulnerability in Kent’s voice. “No, you’re—this isn’t your business, and you’re wrong. I know him.”

“You think you know him better than me?” Jack snaps, “I was fifteen when I met Parse.”

Bitty feels his blood simmering under his skin. He’s hurt, so hurt, because apparently Jack doesn’t have feelings for him. Apparently this is all some weird vendetta against his ex; it’s all about Kent and maybe everything always has been. Quietly, he asks, “You ever think maybe he’s changed since then? Supposedly you have.”

“I—,” Jack sputters, then retorts sarcastically, “Yeah, Bittle, I’m sure he’s changed a lot in the past three months.”

Three months? “You haven’t talked to Kent since—,”

“December.” Jack looks up with a sudden click of realization. “Shit, you don’t—of course you don’t. You know Kenny so well, eh Bittle? Then you know what happened at the party last semester. I’m sure he told you, since he’s such an honest person and all.”

Bitty hasn’t been afraid of Jack since freshman year, since he last screamed in Bitty’s face in the middle of practice, since he stalked away with a sneered, _that was a lucky shot_. There’s a venom in Jack’s voice he’d forgotten he was capable of. “He said you wouldn’t talk to him at Epikegster.”

“I shouldn’t have, but I did.” Jack scrubs a hand over his face and his tone shifts to something like embarrassed determination. “Look Bittle, I don’t—I don’t want to get into it.”

“I—why should I believe you, Jack? Because Kent said he didn’t talk to you and I’m inclined to—,”

“Because Kenny always knows _exactly_ what to say, Bittle,” Jack barks, “You’ve been on the right side of that so far. One day you won’t be.”

And it does feel that way, a little. But it’s not like Kent’s never awkward, or always says what he’s expected to. It’s just that nothing he does ever feels _wrong_. Bitty thought that was a good thing, still does. “Jack, what—,”

“He wanted me to sign with the Aces. And when I said I wasn’t sure—it always starts with ‘I miss you.’ Like that means you owe him something. And then it’s—you don’t understand what it’s like to think you’ll never be good enough—,”

Bitty does, actually. He’s known what that felt like since he sobbed his eyes out when he got tackled playing pee wee football and had to quit. He was reminded of it when Coach asked, genuinely puzzled, wasn’t that ice dancing stuff for girls? He’s reminded of it now, watching the expressions drag across Jack Zimmermann’s face. He just grits his teeth, lets Jack keep going.

“—and to have that rubbed in my face—‘Everyone already _knows_ what you are, but it’s people like me who still _care_ ,’—‘You’re scared everyone’s going to find out you’re worthless, right?’” Jack takes a shaky breath, and Bitty, horrifically, can picture the sneer on Parse’s face when he says it, “’Don’t worry, just give it a few seasons, Jack. _Trust me_.’ It took me—did you know you can die from a Benadryl overdose?”

It takes Bitty three tries to make words come out. “W-what?”

“I googled it. Shitty keeps a bottle in our bathroom. It took me thirty minutes to walk away.” Jack’s voice is low, trembling.

“Jack—,”

“I kept waiting, Bittle, waiting for someone to come—someone to tell me he was wrong. And no one—.” The sentence cuts off abruptly but Jack seems to be wrung dry of words. He looks upwards, at the brightness of the sky, the lazy puff clouds drifting along, until his eyes squeeze shut and he presses a hand against his face.

Bitty was supposed to come. He was supposed to creep up there with a pie and two forks somewhere around one AM, like he always used to. Jack always laughed, told him to go back down to the party, that he was fine. And this time, maybe the only time it’d mattered, he’d had his teeth sunk into Kent Parson’s earlobe instead. He feels tears pricking at his eyes and whispers, “I’m so sorry, I—I should have—,”

“I hope it’s worth it, Bittle.” Jack turns stiffly and walks away, headed in the opposite direction of the Haus. Bitty thinks about running after him. It feels like the right thing to do, if there are right things left. In the end, he just presses his forehead to the rough brick building behind him, letting the grit scrape against his skin. Three separate people walk up while he stands there and ask him if he’s alright. He lies each time.

It’s all so _fucked._ He’s never known Jack to be a liar. He wishes he was. He wishes he didn’t want to throw up. He darts behind the building and heaves against a tree, revisiting the half of a muffin and coffee he called breakfast. It burns all of the way up his throat and he cries.

He cries because it’s all so ruined. He thinks about little things tied to this moment and wonders how many of them will be tainted by it. The little grove of trees he’s hiding in. The feeling of brick on skin. Dark roast coffee with milky cream and pistachio muffins. It’s a little funny, he thinks, how collateral damage works. Pistachio muffins were his favorite and right now he thinks they’ll probably always remind him of vomit and Kent Parson.

He gets himself as composed as he figures he’ll get and walks back home with a little bit of mustered courage. Ransom is the only one home, sprawled on the couch watching TV. He asks Bitty something, but he doesn’t really hear it, just bounds up the stairs and hesitates outside his room. He flees to the bathroom instead and gargles mouthwash until his throat burns all over again but his tongue doesn’t feel sticky anymore.

He slips into his room and shuts the door behind him, bunches up Kent’s snapback in his hand to steady himself. Kent is awake and dressed, scrolling through something on his phone. He looks up with a bright smile, greets, “Hey babe. How was class?”

“You lied to me,” Bitty accuses, as evenly as he can manage.

“Bits, what—,”

“’You’re scared everyone else is gonna find out you’re worthless, right?’” He parrots, his voice trembling. The hard brim of the hat digs into the corner of his palm a little.

Parse tries to keep his expression under control but he doesn’t get the eyes quite right and he looks panicked. “Fuck—he—he told you?”

“Yeah, Kent. He did.” Bitty really doesn’t want to cry. He wants to be angry, not some scared kid who fucking cries.

“Eric, I—,”

“I can’t believe you’d say those things.” Except he kind of can, because otherwise they wouldn’t be standing here, would they? “That you’d hurt Jack like that.”

Kent stands, walks towards Bitty. His voice is raw. “I’m not proud of it. It’s one of the worst things—,”

Bitty can’t listen to it. He can’t. He’s not an arguer, not someone who can draw these things out. He wants to hide. “You said you love him.”

“I _do._ I hate how—,”

“I can’t—I can’t forgive how you hurt him. How you _lied_ about it.”

There’s silence. So much silence, and then: “Are you—are you breaking up with me?” Kent is standing so close now. He’s tall, towering in theory, looking down into Bitty’s eyes, but he feels small and scared. Like he needs to be scooped up and cradled and Bitty can’t help but want to, can’t help but want to change his mind. He looks away and nods. He doesn’t trust his voice. “No,” Kent scrambles, “fuck—I—please, I _love_ you, Eric—please you can’t leave me, _please._ I love you.”

Bitty’s throat goes dry. The words feel manipulative and desperate, even if they’re true. It makes him want to cry and, terrifyingly, it makes him wish he was the kind of person who punched things. So yes, it turns out he’s both petty and bitter enough to say, “Your therapist wants you to lie less.”

“What—fuck, Eric—,” Kent does a shocked almost-laugh of disbelief. His voice is strained and painful. “I’m not _lying._ I would never—I really fucking love you. _Fuck.”_

And just like that, Bitty believes it. He could have seen this coming, if he’d wanted to. He’d skipped over it, thought, _maybe in two months, three._ That wasn’t supposed to be what this was. It’s not what matters now, because: “That doesn’t fix any of this.”

Parse’s jaw isn’t clenched up but he sucks his lips together to keep them from trembling. He asks, “Doesn’t it make you want to try?”

“No,” Bitty cuts, determined, desperate, terrified, “you fucking—you _lied,_ pretended you were—that you weren’t capable of—to what? To fuck me? To make me _like_ you?”

_“Of course I did!”_ Parse steps back and raises his voice, and Bitty realizes dimly that it’s to match his own half-shouted accusations. “That’s what everyone does every _fucking day,_ Eric. We all filter out our shit so people can _handle_ us. It’s the same as how you talk pretty with that mouth of yours when we both know you’re just as fucking filthy as the rest of us. Why you say _bless your heart_ when you want to say _fuck you_ . It’s the same as how Jack pretends he’s straight so he doesn’t have to admit he’s in love with you, fucking _weak_ and out of control and in love like he _never_ was with me!”

Bitty isn’t sure he believes himself when he spits, “It isn’t the same.”

Parse laughs bitterly. “Of fucking course it is. And I’m sorry, Eric, I really am. I’m sorry I wasn’t brave enough to show you the _worst part_ of myself after knowing you for _two fucking days_.” He bites out the words and Bitty isn’t sure if they’re meant to be sarcastic. He isn’t sure if it matters. “I’m sorry I’m a fucking coward and that I wanted you to—,” He takes a deep, shaking breath and puts his fist up to his mouth, bites down on his knuckles so hard Bitty winces instinctively. “I wanted you to see who I’m trying to be. I’m trying really fucking hard.”

It isn’t enough to be trying. They’re all trying and no one’s been doing a very good job lately, and maybe no one is ever enough and maybe that’s the big secret, that everything ends up broken whoever you are. “You need—,” Bitty’s voice cracks and he starts over, “You need to leave. This is over.”

Parse steps backwards and stares at his feet like they’ve betrayed him. He looks up at Bitty with green eyes, uncut-grass green, laughing-in-the-backyard green, blurred-up-by-tears green. He whispers, “Please.”

_Please_ is Bitty’s least favorite word. _Please_ is a needle jabbing into his skin and sending something unstable and desperate and _forgiving_ through his bloodstream like a sickness, like what a bad trip must feel like but Bitty’s never done drugs so he can’t be sure, can’t be sure if _please_ was his heroine or his methamphetamine or his something-anything-everything. He wants to vomit up the little voice in his brain that says _yes, I forgive you_ because that’s not what this is. Can’t be can’t be can’t be.

“Get out,” Bitty rasps. He whips the hat he was holding across the room, towards the door, not sure if it’s supposed to hit Parse but it doesn’t. It ricochets off the doorframe and Parse catches it, clutches it to his chest. Bitty stares at the ground and tries not to sob until after the door clicks shut with the softest, most gentle sound he’s ever heard.

 

Somewhere between two and three eternities later, but according to the clock on his nightstand five minutes, there’s a knock at the door and Ransom calls, “Bits, you okay?”

“Just peachy,” Bitty tries to drawl, but his voice cracks and then he sniffles so it really ruins the effect, if he’s being honest, but Ransom gets the message and walks away.

 

Directly after that but also fifteen minutes later, if you believe the clock, he hears footsteps he’s casually memorized pound up the stairs and a door open and shut across the hall. It’s offensive how normal that noise is, how all of it is, and Bitty feels the anger boil up inside him again because _Jack fucking Zimmermann_ is the one who started all of this and he doesn’t get to just walk up the stairs and sit in his room like he hasn’t sent everything to hell. He doesn’t.

Bitty flings the door open and pulls it shut behind him violently. Jack looks up from the backpack he was unloading like he’s going to say something, but Bitty marches across the room faster than Jack can find words and kisses him. He kisses rough desperate wrong earnest needy angry passionate, sinks his teeth into Jack’s bottom lip and grips at Jack’s shirt to lift into his lap. Their foreheads knock together when Jack pushes up into the kiss with a shocked moan, his tongue hesitating partway through Bitty’s lips when he startles suddenly and pulls away.

“What about—,”

“If you say his name,” Bitty threatens, vaguely impressed by the steel in his own voice, “I’ll leave.”

Jack apparently doesn’t trust himself to say anything at all, in that case, because he surges forward again and tries to bury his tongue in Bitty’s throat. His hands are everywhere, which might be because they’re so damn _big_ but may also be because they’re just everywhere and that’s how things work now. Bitty ruts up against Jack, drinking in the rush when the rolling chair threatens to topple over, helping a hand slide down over his ass and tempting the other up, under his shirt and along the knobs of his spine.

He should ask about the hickey beforehand but he pulls Jack’s collar down to leave it so it’s not like it can’t be covered up, and Jack makes a little whimper in response that can’t possibly have come from him because it was so desperate and raw, and it turns out there isn’t much of anything Bitty doesn’t think would be worth doing to get to hear that sound again.

_“Crisse,”_ Jack swears, and strips off Bitty’s shirt, “Do you—do you top?”

“Historically,” he drawls back, tugs until Jack lifts his arms and his own shirt is gone too, lost somewhere in the room. “But I can—,”

“No, I need—want you to.” Jack runs his hands through Bitty’s hair, presses a thumb against his bottom lip. “Tell me what to do, Bittle. Just tell me. Make me.”

Bitty’s going to die. He’s going to burst into flames and crumble into ash. Jack Zimmermann is trembling underneath him, begging underneath him. For a split second, Bitty feels like he could _own_ him, and he realizes that he _wants to._ It’s dangerous, reckless, irresponsible. He holds his breath and waits for the flames. They don’t come and Jack is still staring up at him with need, so much need, and Bitty presses his mouth against Jack’s ear and murmurs, “Get undressed.”

He climbs off Jack’s lap and works at his own shorts, sliding them off with steeled fingers. He hesitates, watching as Jack scrambles to shed his layers, only takes his boxer-briefs off when Jack’s already shucked out of his. Jack is naked and beautiful, standing at attention, waiting for instructions. It’s almost too much. The Bitty he was a few months ago would have melted incoherently. But he’s had a lot of practice with dirty talk since then, since he met—well, he’s had practice. “Go to the bed, sugar,” he purrs, “and bend over.”

Jack stifles a noise in the back of his throat and listens, moving quickly and spreading out onto his belly, back muscles rippling as he pushes onto his forearms, his ass tilted up and waiting. Bitty asks, “Lube? Condoms?”

“Bottom drawer, desk.”

Bitty finds the box, looks over his shoulder at Jack while he opens it. “You look so lovely laid out for me, honey.” Jack preens, dips his shoulders down and sighs softly. Bitty walks back over, laying the condom to the side, and runs his hands appreciatively over Jack’s ass. “Oh, honey,” he breathes, squeezing gently. “Thighs wider.” Jack obeys, spreads his stance out. Bitty coats his fingers with lube and slides one in, slowly, feeling the tension shudder and dissipate through Jack’s body as he gets used to the touch.

“You’re doing so well,” he praises, “so well. I’m going to open you up for me and then I’m going to fuck you, darlin’. I’m gonna do it hard. Do you want me to do it hard?”

“ _Mm_ ,” Jack groans, and sinks off his forearms, pressing his chest to the bed, when Bitty slides another finger in. Jack is tight, much tighter than—than— _fuck_ , say his name—than _Kent,_ and it takes a while to help him loosen. Bitty purrs at him, soft little things as he works. _You’re so beautiful, so good, so good_ . _You’re so good for me, honey, just what I wanted, honey._ It works, and four lube-soaked fingers later Jack is open, waiting, looking past half-way to fallen apart already.

Bitty rolls the condom on himself and practically smothers it with lube. He nudges up against Jack gently, wants to ask if he’s ready but doesn’t think Jack wants to be asked. He gets an answer anyway, in that Jack ruts back into him, just a little, and whimpers. He grips Jack’s hips and pushes in, slowly, until he’s sunk hips-flush inside and Jack is moaning into the bedspread, clutching it in both hands and wiggling, rocking against Bitty’s cock in delicate little motions, like he’s sneaking them in and Bitty isn’t supposed to know.

“You feel so good around me, sweetheart,” Bitty coos, fighting for his composure. Jack tightens instinctively and rocks harder, begging. “Oh, God, so good, Jack. Here, let me—let me fuck you.” And he does. Jack stills, as much as he seems capable of, and Bitty draws back to push in, works up to it a little until he’s sure nothing hurts, that Jack is loose and slick and drowning in pleasure just like Bitty is. Lord, is he drowning in it, in the way he’s fucking Jack, making him fight to keep quiet, creaking the bedframe with the effort of it. He has them both shaking, vibrating out of their skins. It’s _him_ , Bitty, covered in sweat and making Jack’s knees knock against the mattress, making Jack do _exactly_ what he wants.

Jack starts to reach under to get a hand around himself. Bitty isn’t sure why he says it, maybe just to have something else to control. “No, don’t touch yourself yet.” Jack nods into the mattress with a gasp, his eyes flicking upwards to peer at Bitty with something startlingly like worship. He’s squirming but trying to hold still, and his arms come up slowly, shaking, and cross behind his back. It’s instinct: Bitty’s hand shoots up and wraps around Jack’s wrists, presses them down against the small of his back, the dip where it meets his ass.

He thrusts in hard and Jack’s eyes go wide, so incredibly wide, before he buries his face into the mattress with a garbled sob, shaking with little moans that vibrate from his throat. He’s still choking out tiny sobs when he twists and sinks down to the floor so that Bitty slips out of him with a pop.

Jack is dripping lube onto the ratty hardwood. His belly is smeared with come. Bitty wants to lick it off.

“Sorry,” Jack whispers, looking up with misty eyes. He looks broken. Bitty hadn’t wanted to break him.

“Honey, no,” he whispers back, crouching down in front of him, running fingers through his sweat-damp hair, “You did so good. Such a good boy.” Jack whimpers and bares his throat, pushes his scalp up against Bitty’s fingers. “So wonderful for me.”

“I came too soon,” Jack protests weakly, “You didn’t get to—I don’t deserve—,”

Bitty kisses him, makes sure it’s sweet and gentle. “Why don’t you let _me_ decide what you deserve? That’s what you want, right? To not be in charge.”

“I—but I—,” Jack hangs his head down, to the side. His face is the same after a game he feels they’ve won in spite of his performance. Bitty wonders when he had the time to memorize Jack’s expressions.

“Sweetheart, you—you keep looking at me like I’m gonna hurt you.”

Jack’s head snaps up at that. He looks—he looks _desperate._ “You should. You should—I didn’t do well enough.”

Bitty feels something twist in his stomach. He shucks the condom off his now only half-hard cock and tosses it in the trash. “I don’t think—I don’t _want_ to hurt you. I—I want to make you feel safe. You don’t deserve more pain, honey.” He cups Jack’s face in his hands and kisses again, lets his tongue slip in this time, just a little. Tentatively, Jack pulls him forward with barely-shaking hands. Bitty’s thigh brushes against Jack’s softened cock. Jack shudders and pulls away.

“What if—,” he starts suddenly, and leans forward meaningfully, rubbing harder against the contact, “what about overstimulation?”

“Honey, what—,”

Jack ruts again and whimpers, “Make me feel so good it hurts.”

_Oh._ There’s a shiver of electricity jumping along the nodes of Bitty’s spine. He’s getting hard again, too, and _Lord,_ he could get behind this. It’s a different kind of hurt, maybe a better kind. “You have to tell me when to stop. I won’t—I won’t know.”

“Alright,” Jack nods softly. He’s trembling with anticipation, eyes shimmering with some combination of expressions Bitty can’t read yet. Good Lord, what has he gotten himself into? He sinks down, bent low over his knees, and presses his tongue gently against the tender skin. Jack tastes like come and sweat. It’s beautiful. Bitty licks, laps up the mess Jack left on himself, rubs a thumb gently over the head.

Jack looks like he’s going to burst apart and Bitty is _so, so_ into it he’s almost ashamed. He drags his tongue back down Jack’s stomach and looks up at him, eyes half-lidded and fluttering. He’s brave, in control again. He drawls, “This is what you get for coming before I’m done with you, Mr. Zimmermann.” His lips wrap around Jack’s cock, a little thick with new arousal, and Jack cracks his head back against the bed like he’s been electrocuted.

“Oh my God, Bittle, oh my God,” he whines, hands flying up behind him to grip at the underside of the bedframe. His knuckles turn white. Bitty moves his tongue gently, so softly it’s barely there, careful not to add too much pressure. He’s throbbing hard again, and wonders briefly if he could come just from touching Jack like this. “You can—I can take more.”

Bitty stops entirely instead. “Jack—,”

_“Bittle.”_ Jack is pleading. His eyes look hungry, wild. His breath is coming fast and hard. “Please.”

That does it. Bitty takes Jack back in his mouth and sucks, still not nearly as hard as he can, but hard enough that Jack arches up, every muscle in his body tight and pulsing, and turns to bite down into the mattress to keep from crying out. Bitty works him through it for a few moments, pulling with his tongue and drowning in the muffled groans Jack is sending into the comforter.

“Jack—Jack I need—,” Bitty pulls away, panting, “I need to come, sweetheart. Can you help me come?”

Jack is a puddle under Bitty, covered in spit and sweat and lube and melting into all of it. He nods weakly, eyes bright. “I’ll do anything.”

“Oh Lord,” Bitty murmurs, more to himself, but he doesn’t miss the little smile that flits across Jack’s face. “Blow me?”

Jack nods again, more determined this time, focused. He reaches out and urges Bitty to stand, grabs him by the hips and tugs him forward. He looks up, licks his swollen lips, and takes Bitty down his throat in one fluid motion.

“Sweet Lord— _ooh_ , Jack—in Heaven,” Bitty pants, trying to keep quiet, remembering it’s nearly lunch time. The whole Haus is probably awake and home and Bitty’s fucking Jack Zimmermann upstairs in his room. The thought feels good, dangerous and dirty, and between that and the enthusiasm of a Canadian tongue, it doesn’t take long for him to warn, “Jack, I’m—so close, honey—gonna come—,” and lose his voice in a sob that rips out of his throat.

Jack pulls off and strokes him through it, and he must be trying to _kill_ Bitty, because he tilts his face up into the orgasm and lets Bitty spurt down onto him. His lips, cheek, nose, are all covered in Bitty’s come and it’s incredible, so incredible Bitty wants to cry. If he sinks down and presses his face against the mattress and sobs real tears into the comforter, well, Jack doesn’t need to know that. Bitty stays like that, bent over Jack’s shoulder and shuddering little sobs of joy and some other, dark emotion he won’t touch, for a while until the aftershocks stop and he can breathe again.

He sinks down slowly, catching himself on Jack’s thigh, and murmurs into his ear, “You were incredible, darlin’. You were so good, so good.”

“Bitty,” Jack whispers, his marked face buried in Bitty’s neck, shaking arms moving to wrap around him in a weary embrace.

 

They’re cleaned up and curled in Jack’s bed, Bitty’s head tucked onto Jack’s chest. Jack is staring straight ahead, towards the door but not focused on anything at all. He’s working up the courage to say something, Bitty can tell, and he finally asks, “Did you just cheat on him with me?” His voice is so, so small.

It’s like a check. All the bones in Bitty’s body crack at once and he scrambles, _“No_ —I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—we broke up.” He feels the tension melt from Jack’s body, and before he can think he adds, “And even if we hadn’t—um, maybe you don’t want to hear this.”

Jack turns to him with a nervous, twitching almost-smile. “You’ve already started now, Bittle.”

“I—we had an open relationship,” Bitty explains, suddenly a little uncomfortable. _Because of you,_ he doesn’t add.

“Oh—like you, ah, slept with other people?”

“Yeah. Just Kent, actually, but I—I could have, if I’d wanted.”

Jack frowns. “I don’t think I could do that. I’d get—I get so jealous. I shouldn’t, I guess.”

“No, it’s—you don’t have to. But it wasn’t like that, for us. We—you can tell me to stop talking about this, Lord, it’s really not—,” but Jack, despite his talk of jealousy, is just staring expectantly, and Bitty knows this is something he shouldn’t hide from Jack, if they want to continue whatever it is they’re starting. “We got off on it, together.” His face is bright red, he’s sure. Jack rubs little circles into his hip.

“It was like—it felt like it was _for me,_ I guess. That he wanted me but he couldn’t be there—so he fucked whoever he could, but he always comes—he’s always— _was,_ fuck, _was_ —.” It hurts. It hurts more than he wants it to, more than it should because he’s ended up where he was supposed to be, right? He was meant for Jack’s bed, Jack’s arms around him, Jack’s come in his mouth. And he doesn’t feel guilt over fucking Jack Zimmermann. That part doesn’t hurt at all. But _was_ hurts hurts hurts and he has to take a minute to breathe because he’s _not_ going to cry, he isn’t.

He finishes, voice shaking, “He was always still mine.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Jack blurts, “I’ll be yours,” and immediately looks guilty. “Christ, fuck—I shouldn’t—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—it’s too soon.”

Bitty looks up at him and blinks away tears that were threatening to fall. “No, it’s okay, I—Jack, I want that too. I just—I’m sad, right now, and I’m gonna be for a bit. And I’m angry, so mad, and—,”

“I’m sorry, Bits, I understand.” And Jack looks like he does, even if he also looks like there’s jealousy clawing at his chest.

“Oh, honey, it’s not—what you and I have is separate from all that. And I still want—even if you want to wait, or—,”

“I don’t want to wait,” Jack cuts in, insistent, “Not unless—unless you want to. I think I’ve wanted this a—I’ve wanted this a long time, Bittle. I just didn’t know. I think that’s why I said—it’s ‘why’ a lot of things.”

Bitty’s chest hurts. It hurts with love and pain, tearing at each other like the tomcats he used to shoo off from fighting on his porch. “I want you, too.”

“Alright. I—alright.”

 

~*~

 

Bitty isn’t sure if he’s stress-baking or happy-baking. All he knows is that he’s two pies in, mixing the filling for a third while Jack helps him roll out a crust, sneaking kisses and pretending the Aces game isn’t blaring from the next room.

_“Holy shit._ Bitty, get the fuck in here!” Holster shouts. Bitty jumps out of his skin and bolts for the door before he’s even processed what might be happening.

There’s a fight on the ice. Bitty would’ve recognized Parse even without the flash of jersey; he’s literally half the size of everyone else throwing punches. Bitty goes pale.

The announcer is clearly trying to tone down the disbelief in his voice. “We haven’t seen Parson drop his gloves like this in two, maybe three years, right Dave?”

It’s actually been closer to three and a half years. Kent told him about it and he can’t even remember what night the conversation happened. But he remembers asking, _what made you stop fighting?_ and the familiar, blunt cut of Kent’s voice in response: _I stopped feeling like I deserved to get hit._

There’s blood on the ice, no telling whose. Bitty wants to vomit for the second time in as many days. Mashkov, a towering bulk of muscle, skates over and rips Parse off another Falconer. Kent just swings at him too.

Holster seems to be in awe. Ransom whispers, “The guy barely did anything. Sure, it was a dirty check, but not _that_ dirty and Parse just—,”

“Turn it off.” Jack’s hands fold over Bitty’s shoulders and squeeze. It takes the edge off the panic.

“But we wanna—,”

_“_ _Osti d'épais de marde,_ Ransom, turn it _off!”_ Ransom practically leaps for the remote. The TV clicks off with a sizzle. Bitty stares at it blankly, half-expecting it to spring back to life of its own accord. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Jack that he needed to watch, needed to feel the violence crawl under his skin. He doesn’t know how to admit he thinks he deserved to witness it.

He finishes the pie and burns it in the oven.

 

That night, Bitty nearly chews through his lip waiting for the video of Kent’s post-game interview to load. He gasps to himself when it does. Kent has a sweltering bruise on one eye and a sea of purple on his jaw. He reaches out and brushes his fingers against the screen, traces the lines of Kent’s face. There are still hickeys blotched over his neck; Bitty put them there the night before. He has to remind himself that he didn’t put the bruises on Kent’s face there, too. He curls and uncurls his hand into a fist, over and over, like marks on his knuckles might appear.

He’s never had bruised knuckles and Kent made his own choices.

But Bitty still realizes, when his tears start dropping onto his laptop and he panics to soak them up with a tissue, that all the aching warmth you feel for someone doesn’t go away just because there’s a dark oozing there now too. He wonders how anyone lives through being in love more than once.

He wants to call Kent up and ask him as much. Maybe there’s an answer waiting, somewhere between Jack Zimmermann and his own name. He wants to ask if he’s okay, if he’s in pain, if his nose is really broken. He wants to call and say, _it’s still a seven but you have a number too_.

And it occurs to him, while he turns his phone over and over through his fingers, that maybe that’s why Kent did it. He doesn’t make any phone calls. Jack taps on his window and he leaves his phone on the bed, half-buried under the comforter, when he crawls out onto the roof.

 

~*~

 

Two days later, Bitty wakes up from his afternoon nap to rain sloshing off the roof. It’s not quite a storm, but the sky is downcast and he’s so tired of winter that he almost shuts off his alarm and pretends he doesn’t have class and falls back asleep until the weather decides to cooperate. But it’s early enough in the semester that he’s trying not to give up entirely (he saves that for mid-April, usually) so he sits up in bed for a beat, knees pressed to his chest, before he swings his legs over the side and gets re-dressed.

He shoves his notebooks into his backpack, bounds down the steps in his rainboots, and freezes near the door. His hand is brushed over the collection of umbrella handles poking out of the little metal bin he bought last semester for everyone to use. There’s Ransom’s orange one, Shitty’s hot pink, Holster’s hunter green. And there’s Bitty’s, by all logic inoffensive in conservative black and white with an unobtrusive spade on one panel, but nearly impossible to look at all the same. In his mind it’s sharp around the edges. It shrieks at him to stay away.

It’s _his_ umbrella. It shouldn’t matter where it came from. It’s his umbrella and it’s raining and he knows he isn’t going to touch it even as he tries to convince himself he should.

Bitty bites his lip. He could take someone else’s. He’s sure neither Ransom nor Shitty would mind; he’s pretty sure Shitty already left the Haus today, actually, so it’s not like he could even use it. But somehow that feels even worse and suddenly he’s so ashamed of himself and he hasn’t heard from Kent and he thinks he might throw up if he stands here one more second and he’s out the door just like that.

The rain is cold and there’s a breeze whipping against his face. Bitty hunches his shoulders up and shivers. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets while he trudges along, boots dragging through puddles and splashing up water onto his pant legs. Most of him is soaked through, anyway, so he keeps trudging and he’s not crying yet but he’s caught halfway in between bitter and some other desperate thing so it’s really just a matter of time. He thinks absent-mindedly that he needs to drink more fluids if he’s gonna cry so much.

_“Crisse,_ Bittle, what are you doing?” The rain parts around him and Bitty looks up to find Jack holding a navy blue umbrella over his head. Jack looks like he’s on his way back from a contract meeting; he’s dressed slightly less like a bank robber than normal and has that sort of tired forebodingness about him he gets when he thinks about graduation. “Don’t you have an umbrella?”

“I used to.” It’s a petty, vague answer and Bitty knows it isn’t fair but he mutters it out anyway.

Jack frowns. “Ah, what?”

“I—Kent gave it to me. For Christmas. I couldn’t bring myself to use it,” Bitty admits. He hesitates and starts walking again. Jack follows without question, even though he was probably heading home.

“He…gave you an _umbrella_ as a present?”

“No—,” Bitty hesitates, teeth clacking together with surprise at his own answer. But it’s true, it occurs to him belatedly, because Kent didn’t want him to _have_ an umbrella, did he? Kent wanted to be there holding the umbrella, bumping shoulders while they walked and meeting his friends and sharing the weird froyo flavors no one else would try, but he couldn’t, so he shipped one off in the mail like _this is the best I can do_ . It was the same with the Valentine’s Day dinner he wasn’t there to cook, with everything else he was trying to accomplish from miles away. It was the same as every _fuck, I miss you_ and _here’s what I’d do if I was there._

“No,” he repeats, and distantly, he’s proud of himself for still not crying because he _really, really_ wants to, “No, he was—he was doing things to take care of me, sort of.” They’re taking the long way to his class and he’s going to be late. It seems like a stupid thing to care about.

Jack is watching the rain splatter against the trees they walk past, his eyebrows furrowed low as he thinks. “I—Kenny never gave me presents like that. I mean—he took care of me but that was just—someone had to, eh?”

Bitty laughs hollowly, stumbles with surprise at the sound. The water kicks up on Jack’s nice blue jeans. “He wouldn’t’ve. I bet he took you places, did things. Like, Lord, I dunno, mini-golf and coffee and things. Stuff you could _do_ together.”

“Yeah, I—,” Jack looks over, shocked, “Did he tell you that?”

“He didn’t have to,” Bitty says softly, “I knew that’s what—it’s what you like the most, isn’t it? He’d do what he thought you needed.”

Jack makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and goes quiet. The sounds of rain on pavement wrap around them the rest of the walk to class. Bitty doesn’t feel bitter anymore, and he can’t tell if he misses it, because now he’s all the other thing which turns out to be _yearning_ and he refuses to examine what for. He doesn’t want to be bitter but he doesn’t want to be this either, and he wants to reach up on his tip-toes to kiss Jack goodbye but he can’t.

“Ah, if it’s still raining later, I can come pick you up?” Jack shifts uncomfortably.

Bitty smiles up at him. He can’t feel his fingertips but something blooms warm in his stomach. “I’d like that, honey, thank you.”

Jack nods and smiles back. He gives Bitty a fistbump and walks off, free hand stuck in his pocket and face tilted up to watch the clouds as they brood.

 

~*~

 

It rains on and off for two more days. Bitty buys himself an umbrella at the drugstore.

 

It turns out he doesn’t use the umbrella, much, because Jack walks him almost everywhere, with his big navy umbrella and his soft eyes that might seem a little less sad than they used to—but maybe it’s a trick of the dim, cloudy light. And it feels mostly easy, the same way his Moo-Maw’s apple pie recipe feels mostly easy, but—there’s an _I love you_ constantly on the tip of his tongue he knows he can’t say yet and every time his cell phone buzzes he can’t tell who he wants to be on the other end. It’s never who he wants on the other end.

 

He lays in Jack’s bed late one night, turning over in his head why it might be that the rain sounds so different from this room even though it should be the same. His eyes are fixed on whatever history film Jack is watching but he doesn’t really see it, and his phone buzzes and buzzes but it’s just the group chat, he knows that, and he hates that he knows.

The screen goes black when the documentary ends and it takes him a moment to realize why he flinches away from their reflection. Jack doesn’t seem to notice; maybe from his angle he can’t even see it, but all Bitty can see is how small and blond and freckled he is against Jack’s chest. He whispers, “Am I his replacement?”

Jack takes a moment to close his laptop and trace familiar little shapes against Bitty’s hip. “I was afraid that’s what I am to you,” he says, and Bitty knows it isn’t meant to be a side-step, that Jack must think the _no_ is obvious, but it feels like one anyway.

“No, I—good Lord, Jack, I wanted you before I even met him.” Bitty fidgets to press more of his skin against Jack’s with a little sigh. Jack hums in response and says nothing more, his fingers still drawing patterns on bare skin, his chest pressing up against Bitty’s cheek as it rises in deep, even breaths. And Bitty knows this could be the end of the conversation, that it probably should be, but his phone buzzes one more time and his stomach burns. So he asks quietly, “Am I supposed to miss him this much?”

And Jack answers, chest fluttering in response to quivering lungs, “I don’t know. Sometimes I miss him too. I’m sorry.”

Bitty is sorry too, though for which parts he isn’t sure, so he doesn’t have anything to say except, “I’ll get the light,” and when he trips over something on his way back to the bed Jack snorts in the darkness.

It’s easy to say, “Don’t you chirp me, Mr. Zimmermann,” and it’s easy to swat Jack’s ass before leaning in to kiss him, and it’s easy to let his phone die in the night so that no one can call.

 

~*~

 

The first sunny day that week, Bitty stretches out near the Pond for a few hours to study after class. It’s warm out and he hasn’t cried in over thirty-two hours. He comes home to a packed Haus and gremlins lurking in the kitchen, waiting for him to bake them something. He rolls his eyes and pulls out the crust he’s been chilling since that morning. It feels good to have people to feed.

“Oh, by the way, Bits, weird package for you? Doesn’t say who it’s from.” Lardo holds out a small box, addressed to ‘Bitty.’

It would make quite the scene if he refused to open it. He wills his hands to stop shaking and slices through the packing tape with his keys, peels back the flaps and stares.

Bitty doesn’t go for one of the kitchen chairs, doesn’t lean back against the counter to steady himself. He just drops to the ground, the knob from a cabinet door digging into his shoulder blade, and, humiliatingly, sobs a little. Someone whispers, “Oh, Bitty…” but they sound kind of far away.

It’s the hat Kent had given him, the one Bitty threw back in his face. The notecard says, _“It’s still yours.”_ He drips tears onto it and the ink blurs around the little cat drawing.

No one really knows what to do. Someone gets up and leaves and when the door opens next it’s Jack, cursing softly and dropping to his knees next to Bitty, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, Bittle—fuck, I—.” He gets up again and leaves.

“What the fuck?” Bitty hears someone—oh, that’s Lardo—shout after Jack. After a moment: “Bits, can we do anything?” Bitty gives her a shrug for her efforts, which is less than she deserves but all that he can manage.

Jack comes back with an extra layer on and his backpack, holding his phone in one hand. “Bittle, get up. Get some things. We’re going.”

“W-what? Why?” Bitty looks up. Jack’s face betrays nothing but determination.

“Because the Aces play the Islanders in seven hours and I can get us there in four.”

 

 

Jack’s truck has nice seats. Bitty curls up in the passenger side and stares out the window. It’s broad daylight, not even half-past noon, but this feels like the kind of trip you’re supposed to make at night and the disparity makes him feel fidgety. Jack has country music playing softly on the radio, but he turns it off when Bitty asks, “Why are you doing this?”

“Because Kenny hates having conversations like this over the phone.”

“No, I mean—why do you _want_ me to have this conversation? What—what am I supposed to say?” Bitty presses his forehead against the glass in exasperation. He’s not positive he isn’t going to throw up in Jack’s very expensive-looking truck.

“Ah, I—,” Jack hesitates and takes a long time to actually answer, “I don’t know? I just—I’ve been thinking, and—he made you really happy, right? I think—he was good for you, and I shouldn’t have—I regret saying the things I did about him, to you. I’m sorry.”

Bitty turns to look at him. “Honey,” he says slowly, _“you_ make me happy. You know that, right?”

Jack smiles at that, a soft, quiet thing, before he explains, “I know. And Kenny makes you a different kind. You deserve both. If you want it.”

“Oh.” He’s not really sure what else to say to that, doesn’t even have the energy to babble nonsense until he figures it out. A week ago he would have said _yes._ But now it’s just _oh_ and a lot of queasy half-regrets twisting around in his stomach. “Was everything you said about him true?”

Jack leans his head back against the seat. “Yes. But there’s—there’s more than one way to tell the truth and I—I chose an unfair one, I think.”

“I don’t know what that means, honey.”

“It’s like—I guess I wanted you to blame him for hurting me. And so I left out the ways I hurt him, because I—,” Jack takes a hand off the wheel to run his fingers through his hair, “look, you asked me, at the time, if it was about me and you and—I didn’t realize, but it was, and sometimes I just don’t _get_ those things until later, and looking back I see how I—Parse and I hurt each other, Bittle, for years, and I’m starting to think about forgiving myself, and I think—I think that means forgiving him, too.”

Bitty nods, mostly just trying to soak it all in. Jack isn’t one for long speeches and he looks wrung out again, eyes trained on the road and lips pursed shut. Bitty lets him think for a while before he asks, “So what do you want to happen here?”

“I don’t want to lose you,” he answers immediately, then stumbles over the rest, “I’m not—but if you two—I think I could—.” He glances over at Bitty in exasperation.

Gently, “Would you be alright with me dating both of you? You can say no, honey.” Bitty isn’t sure if that’s even what _he_ wants, honestly. There’s still a lot to be said between him and Kent before—but he needs to know if it’s on the table.

“…Yes. I might get jealous but I—I could get used to it, if it was—it’s Kenny.”

There’s another silence before Bitty prods, “Do _you_ want to date him?”

Jack merges onto the highway, methodically and quietly, eyes flicking between mirrors and the road and a single glance over at Bitty. He sighs. “Ah, I’m not—not right now, I think. There’s so much—maybe down the line, if we—that would be too much, right now.”

“Yeah, I understand.” Bitty smiles, though he’s not sure Jack notices because his gaze is steadily fixed on the highway. After a while, Jack turns the radio back on.

A little over half an hour later, Jack stops humming along to Garth Brooks to ask, “Can you figure out where we can find him? You probably don’t want to do this at the rink, eh?”

“Shit,” Bitty murmurs, and Jack quirks an eyebrow, “Maybe.” He and Swoops have been mutuals on Twitter for months; now Bitty just has to pray that he’ll answer.

**_@omgcheckplease (12:47 pm):_ ** _I need a really big favor. Please don’t say no._

**_@acesswoops14 (12:49 pm):_ ** _What u wanna fuck him up even worse? Set the bar pretty high buddy._

Bitty bites his tongue. He probably deserves it, a little, even if he kind of wants to get indignant.

**_@omgcheckplease (12:52 pm):_ ** _I’m trying to fix things. I’m omw to NY right now._

**_@omgcheckplease (12:52 pm):_ ** _I just want to find him and talk. Alone._

**_@omgcheckplease (1:13 pm):_ ** _Please_

**_@acesswoops14 (1:22 pm):_ ** _Yeah fine. I’ll send u the hotel_

**_@acesswoops14 (1:22 pm):_ ** _Im trusting u on the basis that no1 who makes pancakes tht good can b a bad person_

**_@acesswoops14 (1:22 pm):_ ** _Dnt prove me wrong_

If Bitty were going through even marginally less inner turmoil, he’d probably clap his hands in triumph. As it is, he just smiles quietly and updates Jack’s GPS.

 

Three hours later, Bitty and Jack stand in a very nice hotel hallway. Bitty bites his lip and looks over at Jack nervously, who just shrugs and raps his knuckles against the door.

After potentially the worse second of Bitty’s life, there’s some rustling as a grumpy-sounding Kent shouts, “—locked yourself out again, I swear to fucking Christ—.” The door swings open. Kent freezes, his face contorting through an impressive series of shocked and pissed-off expressions before settling into something approximately neutral. The door slams shut.

Bitty was wrong; this is the worst second of his life. He reaches out to knock on the door again, maybe say something to try and convince Kent to open up, but Jack shakes his head, willing him to wait.

A handful of seconds later, there’s a shaky breath from the other side of the wall and the door creaks open. Kent is braced against the door frame, head hung low and shoulders so tense Bitty swears he can see them trembling. He steps aside and tries to sound flippant when he says, “If you wanted to give the hat back, you coulda fucking mailed it.”

They walk inside and Kent pushes the door shut behind them, runs a hand through his already-mussed hair. Bitty tells him, “That’s not why we’re here. I—,”

“So what? You’re here to rub it in my fucking face that you’re fucking him?” Kent is pacing, eyes trained on the ground, bruised hands gesturing wildly. _“Congratu-fucking-lations,_ Eric, you got to stick your dick in the famous Zimmermann ass. Send me a fucking postcard next time.”

Jack looks like he’s about to say something but Bitty snaps first, “I’m _here_ to try and talk to you like an adult, but if you don’t stop lashing out like this I will walk _right_ back out that fucking door, honey.”

“I—I don’t—,” Kent’s pace slows and he wanders over to the couch, sinking down onto it, “I don’t know how else to—please don’t leave, fuck, I—I’m sorry I’m fucking up again, I—how could you just _bring_ Jack here, like—like _fuck.”_ He looks up, miserably. The bruising around his eye is mostly gone but half his jaw is still a sickly green-yellow and his nose definitely looks broken in person.

Jack sits down too, leaving a respectable space between the two of them, and explains softly, “I brought him because it was my idea to come.”

Kent laughs and there’s not an ounce of humor behind it. “That’s fucking—fuck, you know what? I’m gonna keep my fucking mouth shut because I’m not gonna be—I’m just gonna say more shit I don’t mean.”

Bitty bites his lip and sits down next to Jack, their thighs just barely not touching. “Honey—,”

“Don’t call me that, please,” Kent begs weakly, his head in his hands, “Fucking hurts.”

“Okay, I—sorry.”

Kent shakes his head. “No, I—I’m sorry I—I’m sorry.” An uneasy quiet settles over the room, disrupted by the shaking sounds of Kent’s exaggeratedly-deep breaths and the way Jack thrums his fingers against his knee. “Can someone—please someone _talk,_ fucking Christ.”

“Um,” Jack surprises all three of them by starting, “I guess I—maybe I could say—I forgive you.”

Kent’s head snaps up so quickly Bitty’s own neck twinges in pain. “What?” He runs a hand through his hair. “What?” he repeats.

“You’re sorry, aren’t you? I forgive you.” Jack’s voice is matter-of-fact but soft.

Kent’s voice isn’t nearly as steady. “I don’t deserve it.”

“I deserve it,” Jack says. When no one tries to fill his silence, he continues, “I deserve to forgive myself for the things I did. For how I—for us. And I forgive you too.” Bitty reaches out and places his hand on Jack’s back, rubbing little circles through the fabric of his shirt.

“Fucking—why?”

“Ah, I—,” Jack frowns, eyebrows furrowed while he knits together the words in his head, “Because I think—we’re better than our worst parts, eh? And that means we—we can keep trying to be better and it’s okay to be loved along the way.”

Bitty might be crying a little bit. Kent is staring at Jack with wet eyes. He laughs softly, so unlike the harsh sound of before, and asks, “Who the fuck are you and what the fuck’ve you done with Jack Zimmermann?”

Jack chuckles and then deadpans, “They upgraded my programming while you were away, Kenny.”

There’s a lull, a beat where there’s just a spark between eyes in some language Bitty isn’t a part of. Then: “I’m so sorry,” Kent whispers. He reaches out like he wants to touch and changes his mind, hand falling limp at his side. “I fucking—I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean any of it, not a fucking word and I—and I was hurting without you, Zimms and—and I don’t know why that made me wanna hurt you too.”

“I forgive you,” Jack repeats, and he reaches out and does touch, a soft hand on Kent’s shoulder, “and I’m sorry too.”

Kent nods, then shakes his head in disbelief. “I—fuck, I forgive you too, Zimms. Fuck. Of course I do.” He’s almost smiling. Jack just nods, maybe squeezes Kent’s shoulder.

Bitty’s voice cracks when he speaks. “I should’ve—we could’ve talked, I—you deserved better than gettin’ thrown out, Kent, I—,”

“I didn’t. Bits, I—I understand.”

Bitty means to smile sadly but it probably looks more like a grimace. “Don’t lie to me again, honey.”

Kent nods, sucks in air and bites down on his lip. “Okay, fine. I—I don’t understand. I don’t fucking get how—I was trying so hard, Bits. I was—I was _proud_ of who I was to you and I—and I fucked up but I thought—I thought I meant more than—,” his voice drops to a pained murmur, a broken softness Bitty has to struggle to hear, “I thought this time I’d be good enough.”

Bitty busies himself wiping the tears out of his eyes before he answers and Jack stands, clearing his throat awkwardly. He says, “I, ah—I think you two should talk alone.”

Kent stares up at him and blinks wearily. “Zimms?”

“Jack, you don’t have to—,”

“It’s fine,” Jack assures them, shouldering his backpack pointedly, “I’ll find a coffee shop and work on my thesis. Just, ah—can we head back tonight, Bittle? We have morning practice.”

“Of course,” Bitty answers thickly, a surge of love wrapping around his throat.

Jack nods. He clasps Kent’s shoulder again and kisses Bitty’s temple, and then the hotel door clicks shut with him on the other side.

It takes a moment for them to look at each other after that, and another long moment before Kent manages to sputter out, “Fuck, Bits, can I—?” and Bitty shouldn’t know what that means but he does, of course he does, and he turns and his arms open and Kent collapses into them. Kent soaks tears into Bitty’s shirt and snuggles himself in close.

“Hi, Bits,” he says with a shaky laugh.

“Hi, Kenny,” Bitty whispers, his hand snaking up to smooth down Kent’s ruffled hair.

Kent nuzzles against Bitty’s collarbone. “So, you and Zimms, huh?”

“Yeah.” Bitty tilts his head down and watches Kent’s face.

His eyes are open, but he doesn’t look when he asks, half joking and half in pain, “Scale of one to ten, how much do you love him?”

“’s probably an eight, after today,” Bitty muses softly, still playing with Kent’s hair, “but you’re askin’ the wrong question.”

Kent doesn’t really shiver so much as vibrate, and all the places their bodies are touching hum in response. “What should I ask?”

“How I feel ‘bout you.”

Kent pulls away a little, then, so he can look up into Bitty’s eyes, eyes Bitty hopes are warm and comforting and steady in their brownness. “Scale of one to ten—,” he asks, and his voice breaks and he laughs and finishes with an unsteady breath, “how much do you love me?” His eyes are blue. They’re a muddied blue—nothing like the piercing, constant shade of Jack’s—a blue with eddies and currents that whispers, _I could drown you,_ but promises, _I won’t._

“Nine.” It’s just one word, one syllable, but it’s so thick on his tongue that maybe he spends forever saying it.

Kent nods and then shakes his head in disbelief and then nods again. He either laughs or sobs a little, Bitty isn’t sure, and then asks, “Does that mean—are you—?”

“It means I’m here,” Bitty tells him gently, “and I want to try.”

“Bits,” Kent breathes, “Bits I’m so—,” he pulls back farther, so they’re no longer hugging but takes Bitty’s hands in both of his, “I’m sorry about what I did to Jack and how I lied to you and I—I can’t—I don’t wanna make excuses but can I—if I can explain why I did it? The lying not—I don’t know why I did the rest. I’ve never been able to get that part of myself.”

Bitty rubs circles onto Kent’s palm with one of his thumbs. He shifts to sit cross-legged on the couch and Kent mirrors him so that the face each other, their linked hands resting between them. “Yeah, okay.”

Kent takes a second to collect his thoughts and then explains, earnest and bright-eyed, “I just—I thought maybe I could have something new with you, you know? You were so—I _really_ liked you, Bits, and I thought if you knew what happened between me and Jack, what I was like back then—what I can still be like, I guess—I thought you wouldn’t _want_ me and I fucking panicked, okay? I just—I just panicked, and I told myself it was okay because I wasn’t gonna _be_ that person anymore, I wasn’t gonna be like that to you and—and I didn’t think I’d get the chance to be different if you knew.”

Bitty takes a moment to turn it all over, squeezing Kent’s hands gently to let him know he’s still present in the conversation. “Would you have ever told me the truth?”

Kent opens his mouth and then clamps it shut. He looks down at his feet, then looks up to answer, “No. Maybe if you’d—no.”

“Kent, I—,” Bitty sighs and puts a hand up to scrub at his face. When he pulls it away, he takes Kent’s hand again. “I wish you’d told me. I understand not wanting to talk about it, but you could’ve told me you saw him and that you didn’t feel comfortable talking about what happened. I would’ve understood.”

“Yeah, I—I get that now. I’m sorry, Bits.”

Bitty bites his lip, almost afraid to ask his next question. “Have you—did you lie about anything else?”

“No,” Kent answers immediately, like he’s relieved there’s something he has a good answer to.

“Would you—if something happened, would you lie now?”

“I—,” Kent’s hands twitch like he wants to run his fingers through his hair, but he doesn’t let go of Bitty, “I wouldn’t want to. I don’t know if—fuck, maybe I’d get scared but if I did I wouldn’t leave it like that. I wouldn’t, it’s just—it’s hard for me.”

Bitty can feel the pain in Kent’s voice, and maybe that’s why his own almost breaks when he presses, “Why is it hard for you, honey?”

“Because I—,” Kent stops, frustrated, and tries again, “fuck, I don’t know how to—,”

“Hey,” Bitty interrupts softly, “come here.” He stretches his legs out and tugs Kent towards him. Kent goes easily, curling up back to front into the curve of Bitty’s body, resting his head on his shoulder. Bitty runs a hand through his hair again and reminds him, “I love you.”

“I love you too, Bits,” Kent murmurs and falls silent. He nuzzles his face against Bitty’s neck and soaks in the affection, just for a little while. “I guess it’s—it’s easier to filter who I am, let people take the parts of me they want. I feel like a different person around everyone and it feels like no—like no one could want the whole me. So I push parts away and sometimes I lie.”

Bitty dips his head down and presses his face into Kent’s hair, lips grazing lightly against his temple. “Do you want all of me?”

“Fucking—of course.”

Bitty smiles a bit like he’s won a game of chess. “Then why wouldn’t I want all of you?”

“I—because I’m not—,” Kent sputters.

“You were right, when we fought before,” Bitty continues, “when you said that we all pretend. Lord knows I ain’t the same in Georgia as I am in Massachusetts. And even here, I’m not—I don’t talk to the boys like I do with Lardo. But the difference is that you’re my boyfriend—,” and Bitty can tell that the fact he used present tense wasn’t lost on Kent, who presses in closer against him with a sharp breath, “and I don’t feel like I have to pretend with you. I think—that’s one of the best things we can do for the people we love, honey. To let them not pretend. Can I give that to you?”

Kent doesn’t answer at first; he’s too busy turning to pull Bitty into a crushing hug, the kind that usually makes him panic, tells him to _run_ , but somehow right now feels like the safest place he’s ever been. He knows that the difference is Kent, that all the warmth and trust lapping at his edges has pushed out the fear, and he knows that one day he’ll talk about why that all matters. But right now he has a little voice telling him _stay,_ and it’s enough to answer _yes._

 

“Please,” Kent whispers, and _please_ is Bitty’s favorite word.

**Author's Note:**

> [Come scream with me on Tumblr <3 ](http://yoursummerfrost.tumblr.com/)


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